


You Walked in Just Like Smoke

by collie



Series: Me and My Shadow [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Twins, Character Death, Choking, Consent Issues, Doppelganger, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Evil Twins, F/M, Gun Violence, Heavy Angst, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Magic, Murder, Sibling Incest, Stilinski Twins, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-04
Updated: 2013-11-04
Packaged: 2017-12-31 11:32:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 29,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1031208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/pseuds/collie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey,” Stuart says in a hushed, almost hopeful tone as he reaches out to grab Stiles by the shoulder, turning his attention back. “If you let me kiss you, I promise it'll make you happy.”</p><p>“Stu–” Stiles says softly as his brother crowds him slightly, Stuart's other hand reaching up to stroke his thumb lightly along Stiles' cheekbone, and despite the welling in his chest, like he suddenly wants to cry, Stiles leans into it. He resigns. He concedes.</p><p>Because he <i>does</i> want to be happy. Wasn't that the point of all this?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> First off, I just want to say thank you _so much_ for the amazing response to You Have to Start Over (at the End). To everyone who commented or left me messages on tumblr or rec'd that story; you guys are _everything_. This sequel is for you! You asked for it and I deliver. I hope you enjoy! ♥
> 
> Both this story and it's predecessor were heavily inspired by the songs [Shadowman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d85AC7dD3LM) by K's Choice and [The Haunted Man](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1InkDv-JUhI) by Bat for Lashes, so give them a listen if you're interested.
> 
>  **Trigger warning:** Dubcon, gun violence, murder, character death, and decent people being forced to do bad things. GOOD TIMES. (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
> 
> Basically consider this vaguely spoilery for the entire show up to the end of 3A. Random things get referenced all the time.

They have thirty minutes or less before the Sheriff calls them down for dinner, because pizza always takes thirty minutes or less. At least that's what the commercials promise. But the world is full of liars, and one of the best of them all is sitting on Stiles' bed, smiling at the the identical skeptical teen.

“I _can_ make you forget,” Stuart says with the ease of someone who isn't a supernatural creature and who didn't just walk out of Stiles' mirror when summoned by a magic spell. It's almost admirable, his ability to code-shift like that, but Stiles has to assume it has everything to do with him being a _freaking doppelganger_ and not actually his real flesh and blood, born of his mother's womb, split from his egg, brother. “I already broke all the rules the first time, so maybe I should do it _right_ this time,” he chuckles.

Stiles hesitates, sitting with his back against the wall and Stuart's knees pressed against his, both sitting cross-legged across from each other like they've done since they were kids. “I don't know if I want to,” he admits, because it's a natural human reaction to cling to the truth, no matter how destructive it can be. “Considering from everything I know now, you 'doing it right' this time means me dying and you assuming my identity.”

“Don't worry about that,” Stuart grimaces, and Stiles can almost buy for a moment that he might actually be apologetic. “Seriously.”

“Look, I don't–”

“Trust me?” Stuart cuts him off with a nod as he picks fuzz off of Stiles' bedding and rolls it between his fingers. “Yeah, I know. But I'll earn it.”

Stiles sighs and leans back against his bedroom wall, fighting the urge to kick his legs out into Stuart's lap and joke with him about their current running tally of who owes who a foot rub, but he keeps his feet to himself. It's weird now, of course. Everything's weird now.

“Why?” he asks suddenly, canting his head before letting it rest back against the wall. “Why did this happen in the first place?”

Stuart shrugs. “You called me.”

“But, you had to have had a reason for answering.”

“Don't worry about it,” Stuart says dismissively as he unfolds his legs and climbs off the bed. “Let's go get some pizza. I think I heard the doorbell.” He holds out his hand to Stiles.

“Tau–”

“ _Nim_ ,” Stuart counters with a sigh as he waves his hand around, unwilling to drop it until Stiles takes it. “Stop being such a baby. Come on, you know me. No one loves you more than I do.”

“I know the magical fake memories you syringed into all of our heads,” Stiles grumbles, eyeing his twin warily even as he grabs the offered hand and lets Stuart haul him off the bed and to his feet. “I don't know _you_. I don't even know what you are.”

Stuart is silent for several breaths, and Stiles' skin starts to feel a little tight. He feels self-conscious, like you do when you're playing hide and seek; when you're trying so desperately to stay still but all you want to do is move, run, because you're filled with anxiety and adrenaline. The fear of being found, caught. Of losing.

“What am I? I'm _you_ ,” Stuart finally sighs with a shrug. “It's as simple as that. I'm all the parts of you that you don't want to think about. All the weird little bits of your personality that you don't like.” He moves over to the clean laundry pile and grabs one of his shirts – one of the shirts that Stiles swears wasn't there just ten minutes ago – and tosses it on the bed.

“I'm the inappropriate thing you say when you're uncomfortable that earns you a dirty look from Scott,” Stuart continues with a little laugh as he strips the shirt he's wearing off and throws it into the laundry basket, and Stiles' eyes follow it because it's an exact replica of the shirt he's still wearing, except the little rip at the hem is on the opposite side. Mirror image.

Stuart's eyes darken a bit as he steps over and leans into Stiles, throwing an arm around his brother's shoulders and giving him a squeeze. “I'm that one thought you had last year after dad grounded you, that if you just keep letting him eat bacon, maybe he'll have a heart attack and die and then you’ll have the house to yourself.” His smirk is pronounced as Stiles shoves him off with a wounded, disgusted look.

“What the hell–?”

But Stuart doesn't stop.

“ _I'm_ the reason you've actually entertained the thought of taking the bite just so you can be strong enough to pin Derek down and fuck his ass raw,” he grins, his voice roughening a bit as he suddenly grabs Stiles by the front of the shirt and pushes him back against the now closed closet door, not hesitating to pin Stiles with his body. “And I'm _absolutely_ the one planting the idea of you letting me fuck _you_ while you're fucking _him_.”

Stiles lets a hot breath escape as his hands grab at Stuart's sides, bunching up shirt and skin in his fingers as he sets his jaw. He wants to push Stuart away, he wants to, but he doesn't, because he wants his brother close even more.

“Oh, and then there's this classic," Stuart murmurs as he leans in, letting his lips and words brush hot over Stiles' ear. "You eating dirt out in the middle of the woods, on your hands and knees while Derek's fucking you... as an actual _wolf_.”

“You are so fucked up,” Stiles grinds out through his teeth as he digs his nails into Stuart's sides, though the cotton of his shirt takes the majority of the brunt.

“I know you are, but what am I?” Stuart drawls ironically before leaning in and dropping an almost condescending peck to the tip of Stiles' nose. “You know, the sooner you accept the fact that you're a fucked up kid who wants fucked up things, the happier you'll be.” He steps away from Stiles, who draws in a long, deep breath, like Stuart had been sucking up all of the oxygen. “And really, can you seriously tell me that _any_ of you are genuinely happier now than you were a week ago?”

“Derek maybe,” Stiles scoffs as he pushes himself away from the closet with a scowl, his eyes lingering sidelong on Stuart who's in the process of changing into his own jeans, now.

“Yeah, but Derek is generally a total dickhole,” Stuart states as he tugs the skinny denim up his legs. “Hot abs and sexy stubble do not forgive asshat behavior, and he was pretty much completely _less_ concerned with the fact that you had gone off the reservation, and more concerned about how much you enjoy the dick.”

“That's kind of promising though, if you think about it,” Stiles says lamely as he steps around Stuart to linger by the door. “At least he didn't seem horribly disgusted by it.”

“Wow, yeah, and 'he only hits you when you make him angry', right?” Stuart rolls his eyes as he shoves his feet into a pair of Stiles' sneakers because he's too lazy to sit on the bed to lace up his own shoes, which are suddenly right there on the floor. “No bueno, Nim. Just fuck him and get it out of your system. Derek Hale is _so_ not long-term-love material.”

“I guess,” Stiles sighs as he reaches up to scratch over the crown of his head, a habit he'd cultivated back when his head was still buzzed.

“Remember, Nim; I know _everything_ that you know, and even some things that you don't even know you know,” Stuart says as he walks up to stand before his brother, finally reaching out to pluck the black frames off of Stiles' face; the glasses he'd forgotten he'd been wearing ever since Stuart stepped out of the mirror. “If anyone has your best interests in mind, it's me.”

The moment Stuart settles his glasses back onto his own face, Stiles just glances away toward the bedroom door, because he can't shake the chill in his stomach or the strange feeling of his brother's words being anything but comforting.

“Hey,” Stuart says in a hushed, almost hopeful tone as he reaches out to grab Stiles by the shoulder, turning his attention back. “If you let me kiss you, I promise it'll make you happy.”

“Stu–” Stiles says softly as his brother crowds him slightly, Stuart's other hand reaching up to stroke his thumb lightly along Stiles' lower lip, and despite the tightness in his throat like he suddenly wants to cry, Stiles leans into it. He resigns. He concedes.

Because he does want to be happy. Wasn't that the point of all this?

Stuart's hand slips down to curl under Stiles' chin, and all he can see is the bright flash of the doppelganger's eyes as Stuart's lips meet his, and the world tilts beneath his feet.

 _The doppelganger must kiss the human it wishes to transform into,_ Stiles remembers, a few strains of information from Deaton flashing through his memories as Stuart sifts through them, plucking out the ones he doesn't want Stiles to remember and rearranging the rest to suit him best. _When the doppelganger's lips touch the human's, information about the human's thoughts, memories, physical abilities, skills, and talents are transferred to the doppelganger, thus marking the change._

_The doppelganger must kill the human to make the transference complete._

“Boys! Pizza!” the Sheriff yells up, and the twins spring apart as if he'd walked into the room and tossed a bucket of ice water on them, while talking about the merits of safe sex.

“Dude, be careful,” Stiles hisses, shoving Stuart on the arm as he peers out the door which is still cracked open a bit. “What if he'd walked up here?”

“I would have told him you'd choked on your own spit again and I was giving you mouth-to-mouth like I had to do when we were eight,” Stuart laughs, easily ducking Stiles sharp shoulder as the younger twin tries to ram him playfully into the wall.

“Shut up, dickhead,” Stiles laughs as they spill out of his bedroom and head toward the stairs. “That was one time, and I couldn't help myself. That was the first time I ever saw Lydia Martin,” he grins. “Of course I had excessive drool.”

“Speaking of Lydia, think we can reschedule Go-Karts and mini-golf for this weekend?” Stuart asks as they head downstairs. “Getting sick this past weekend was a pain in the ass.”

“Oh, definitely. We'll make it happen.”

“Cool.”

 

“I call keys today!” Stuart yells out a few days later as they're both getting ready for school, and Stiles exhales an annoyed huff because it's too late for him to argue; Stuart's already grabbed the keys to the Jeep off of the little key-hook next to the door.

“ _Fine_ ,” Stiles complains as he stomps out the front door after his brother, eyes narrowing in the morning light as he spies what looks suspiciously like Derek's Toyota parked down at the end of the block.

“Dude, is that–?” Stiles jerks toward the car with his chin, and Stuart glances behind him, his eyes narrowing as well to get a better look.

“That's... yeah,” Stuart snorts and climbs in behind the wheel, gesturing for Stiles to get in as he snaps his seat-belt on. “Maybe loverboy wanted to drive you to school today,” he teases as he starts the Jeep, making little kissy faces at the younger twin, who quite lovingly socks Stuart in the thigh as hard as he can.

“Go fuck yourself,” Stiles smiles cheerily as Stuart laughs and pulls out of the driveway, turning in the direction opposite Derek's car and driving down the street.

‹ _What's up, creeper?_ _›_ Stiles texts to Derek, not really expecting to get a response as the werewolf rarely acknowledges the existence of technology. But much to his surprise his phone vibrates again in under thirty seconds.

‹ _Bad vibe last night. Just checking in on you._ _›_

Stuart is too busy singing along with the radio at the top of his lungs to notice Stiles' weird expression as he stares at his phone, thumb moving over the keypad before setting it in his lap

‹ _This is the third night in a row, dude_ _. Is something going on?_ _›_

 _‹_ _You'll know when I know._ _›_

 

“Hey, Scotty?” Stiles hedges as he picks up one of the lacrosse balls and tosses it to his friend as the two of them walk out onto the otherwise empty field, having lingered behind after school to practice on their own.

Scott catches it easily and slows his pace toward the goal. “Yeah, man?”

“If I ever asked you for the bite,” Stiles hesitates, his expression drawing in a little perplexed, like he's not exactly sure why he's bringing this up. “If I ever meant it, you know... would you give it to me?”

“What?” Scott straightens a bit and stops walking altogether, finally giving Stiles his full attention. “What do you mean?”

Stiles sags a bit and rolls his eyes, fingers slowly turning the other ball he'd picked up around and around in his fingers. “If I asked you to stick your little wolfy teeth into my arm so I could run with the pack and howl at the moon, would you say yes?” he presses his lips together in a tightish smile, as if trying to pass the question off as a random word vomit so Scott doesn't dwell on it too much, but it's Scott, so of course he will.

“I... don't know? Maybe?” Scott answers earnestly, because there's no other way to come at something like this. “I guess it would depend on why you wanted it.” Stiles feels a little bad for not keeping this to himself because Scott sounds confused, and he hates the idea of his friend dwelling.

“You've always been, like, really adamant about not wanting to be a werewolf,” Scott continues as he walks back over to Stiles, eyes squinting a little as the sunset starts glowing a bit brighter as it hits the horizon. “So, I guess if you suddenly one day wanted it, I'd need you to convince me.” He gives Stiles a bit of an apologetic smile.

“No, that's fair,” Stiles nods and gestures that Scott get back over into the goal, since they didn't have much time left before the security guard would wander by to sweep them off the field. “And a good idea, really. It would definitely save me from any stupid drunken antics in the future, you know. Like instead of drunk-dialing, drunk-asking-for-the-bite.”

They both laugh as Scott plants himself in front of the goal, no helmet necessary of course, and Stiles walks away to stick himself at the attack line.

“I'm pretty sure that drunk-asking-for-the-bite would end up being the worst hangover ever,” Scott grins.

“Seriously,” Stiles agrees. “'Dude, I had the worst headache when I woke up'. 'No, man, that's just your inner monster howling for blood'. 'Oh, shit... do they make aspirin for that?' 'Pickle juice, bro!',” he quips, sending them both into peals of laughter.

They screw around for a bit, Stiles chucking the ball at Scott as hard as he can, and every time Scott catching it effortlessly. Stiles complains and they finally settle on Scott blindfolding himself, which ensures he only catches about three-quarters of the balls, which satisfies Stiles.

It's not until they're packing their things up to leave that Scott brings it up again.

“So, why are you even thinking about the bite?” he asks as he carelessly shoves his pads into his bag, hoping Coach doesn't choose tomorrow to do an equipment check. “Did something happen?”

“I dunno,” Stiles shrugs it off, hoping an easy smile and a soft laugh will convince Scott that everything is fine, but they both know better. “Just curious. Stu and I were just bullshitting and it came up.”

“That's total crap,” Scott sighs, throwing a leg over the bench and straddling it as he looks up at Stiles, watching his friend's expression darken a bit; close off. “What's this all about, man?”

“Nothing.”

“Stiles–”

“Look, can you just–“ Stiles begins sharply, but cuts himself off with a heavy sigh, and Scott's eyebrows lift at the annoyance he hears in Stiles' tone. “Look, it's my prerogative to lie if I want to. Can you just let me lie?” His shoulders sag a bit as he finishes zipping his bag. “Just because you can _tell_ when I'm lying doesn't mean I have to be a saint.”

Scott is silent for a few beats, concern written clearly on his face, but he simply nods because Stiles is right.

“I'll tell you another time, okay?” Stiles says as he hauls his bag up over his shoulder and nods to Scott. “Don't worry. I mean it.”

“Alright man, but you only get one free pass before I start stalking you,” Scott says with a little smile, because a bit of levity can't hurt right about now. He stands and follows after Stiles and they make their way back toward the locker room.

“You mean someone's actually going to let Derek clock out?” Stiles snorts.

“Oh...” Scott winces slightly before turning that puppy dog smile onto Stiles. “You noticed, huh?”

“I don't know if he's just being lazy or if I'm just a hell of a lot more perceptive than Stu is, but yeah, I noticed. So, what's up with that?”

“We think it's probably nothing,” Scott shrugs as he stows his duffel in his locker, Stiles doing the same beside him. “Derek says he and Peter felt some weird vibes the other night, so they went out sniffing around.”

“Then why the stakeouts in my front yard?”

“Well, we don't know what it is yet, and better safe than sorry since a lot of monsters like to kidnap humans, right?” Scott grins. “So someone needs to keep an eye on you guys.”

Stiles just rolls his eyes. “Could you imagine, though?” he says as he and Scott head for the door. “Anyone kidnapping me? They'd probably return me an hour later with a tear-stained apology note, and my nose would be broken from where they'd hit me in the face with a chair, trying to get me to shut up.”

“You don't have to get kidnapped for that, man," Scott says as he clasps a hand on Stiles' shoulder and giving him a loving, meaningful, and completely full of shit smile. "I would absolutely hit you in the face with a chair any time you wanted me to.” Complete with batting eyelashes.

“I love you, too, bro,” Stiles chuckles, shaking his head as the pair walk out of the locker room and toward the parking lot. “Oh, hey, uh... speaking of feeling like you just gpt hit in the face with a chair," he chuckles nervously. "About the other day at Deaton's...”

Scott winces a little inwardly, because as much as he and Stiles love each other as best friends, and even to an extent like brothers, the idea that Stiles has been intimate with his real blood brother still makes Scott squicky and uncomfortable. He was really hoping they were going to do the manly thing and ignore it, but guesses not and mentally braces himself for Stiles' words.

“That whole thing with Derek calling me out...” Stiles says, and Scott blinks and leans back a bit, giving him a slightly surprised look as he continues on. “I'm not _into him_ into him. It's seriously just, like, a purely physical thing. Like popping a boner around boobs or leaning against a washing machine or, you know, a stiff breeze. I can't be held responsible for that, right?”

“Wait, _Derek_?” Scott asks, his face a pure mask of confusion, and he stares at Stiles like the taller boy is screwing with him. “What about Stu?”

“What about him?” Stiles gives him a weird look before shrugging. “He doesn't really get along with Derek. But, you know, who really does, right?” he chuckles. “But anyway, I just wanted to clear that up. It's no big deal. It's not even a thing.”

“O-kay,” Scott drags out before Stiles hooks an arm around his shoulders and drags him toward the Jeep, babbling something about Chinese take out, while Scott sifts through his memories of last Saturday at the animal clinic. Weird, because he swears he remembers Derek talking about Stiles and _Stuart_ , but maybe he's remembering wrong. He must be, because there's no way that was an actual thing. He must just be remembering wrong.

 

It's not until Thursday night, after the Sheriff has gone to bed, that Stuart makes his move.

“I got some condoms,” Stuart breathes hotly against his brother's throat,

“Because, uh... because of Lydia?” Stiles asks, his voice a little strained both from the way Stuart's hand is shoved inside of his jeans and working over his dick, and the thought of his twin being the one to get to see that goddess in all of her glory.

“Uh, yeah, but also...” Stuart lifts his head to look at Stiles, pupils blown and glassy as he thumbs over the head of Stiles' cock, pulling a hard whine from the younger twin. “Also because of you, Nim. I think we should.”

“Yeah..?” Stiles breathes, his brow furrowing slightly as he rocks his hips up, his hands moving to grab at either side of his brother's hips as Stuart straddles him on the bed, Stiles' back up against the wall. “I mean... really? You think–”

“ _Yes_ ,” Stuart says intently before tonguing over his lower lip, his eyes dropping to Stiles' mouth. “I want you, Nim. It's time to stop screwing around.”

“Wow, uh...” Stiles whispers, feeling himself nodding without any real expression or thoughtful permission put into the motion. “Yeah, okay. Yeah.”

“Yeah?” Stuart repeats with a lift of his eyebrows over his smudged glasses, and at Stiles' insistent nod he smiles.

“ _Hell_ yeah.”

With the speed that only two horny teenagers can muster, Stuart grabs the lube from Stiles' nightstand drawer and the condoms from his backpack, and Stiles cranks the music that's been playing softly on his laptop. Wouldn't do for their father to hear them, right? They shed their clothes with a desperate ferocity, teeth catching at lips and tongues tasting any bit of skin they can, as shirts get tugged over heads, and jeans and boxers are wiggled out of and kicked off.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Stiles gasps as the hand he'd just sunk into Stuart's hair slips up to grab his glasses off, and they go skittering onto the nightstand, leaving the two boys staring at each other like mirror images. “Um, so who...”

“Who?” Stuart frowns softly and furrows his brow before recognition lights his face. “ _Oh_ , right... who. Um... well, you, definitely,” he grins and crawls back over Stiles, pressing his lips firmly against his brother's in a vain attempt to distract Stiles from the inevitable question hanging heavy in what little air there is between them.

“No, _you_ ,” Stiles mumbles against Stuart's lips, and with a smirk turns his head so the older twin's mouth skitters along his cheek, leaving Stuart scowling.

“Okay, well it has to be _one_ of us,” Stuart grumbles, tongue darting over his lips as he slumps back, sitting on Stiles' thighs. He drops his eyes and moves a hand to his own dick, squeezing firmly until a pleasurable shudder goes through him. “Come on, Nim... I _really_ want to fuck you.”

Stiles feels uncertainty twist cool in his stomach, even as Stuart leans forward and presses hot and hungry against him. The sounds of their want for each other drag out of their throats as Stuart's hand moves to curl firmly around both of their hard lengths, squeezing them together almost to the point of painful. He drops his forehead against Stiles' and pants softly, and Stiles can feel Stuart's muscles tensing under his hands as he skims his palms and fingers over the skin of his brother's back.

“Flip a coin, jerk,” Stiles whispers, even as his hips roll up and he indulges in a slow push through Stuart's hand, shivering at the silky-hot skin of his brother's dick against his. He then completely pulls his hands off of Stuart and throws them up behind his head, resting back against them with a smile that's trying really hard to be cool and smug, but there's still a hand moving on his dick, so it more looks like he's just trying not to throw up; eyes wide and lips stretched to their limit. But Stuart knows better.

“I fucking hate you,” Stuart groans, deflating a bit as he drops to nuzzle at Stiles' collarbone. But he moves off of his brother and shuffles to his feet to quickly dip a hand into their joint change jar on Stiles' dresser, pulling out a quarter.

“Heads, you take it,” he announces as he walks back over to stand beside the bed. “Tails, me.” Stiles just nods, though the flush in his cheeks and lips matches the darkening head of his cock as his eyes drop to stare at his brother's dick, wondering what it would feel like inside of him.

“Flip,” Stiles says before licking his lips, his dick pulsing gently as he lifts his eyes back to Stuart's face.

The coin is flipped. It turns in the air for what seems like an eternity before landing amongst the folds of the bedsheets. Both boys lean in to peer closely at it, and with Stuart's hissed 'yes!' it's revealed to be heads. Stiles expected to feel less excited than he does, but he can't lie; he was secretly hoping it would be him.

“How do you want me, baby?” Stiles teases, pitching his voice falsetto as he slides onto his side and poses like Kate Winslet from Titanic. “Like one of your French girls?”

Stuart snorts and grabs Stiles by the ankles, dragging him around so he's laying stretched out on his back along the length of the bed. “You don't have the boobs to be Kate Winslet,” he teases, because both of them are a little nervous, and humor in the face of terror is a Stilinski family trait.

Stiles pouts a bit and digs his chin into his sternum as he stares down at his chest, lifting his hands to cover cover his nipples. “Don't listen to him, ladies,” he murmurs. “I think you're great.” The playfulness is short-lived, however, when a hot jolt of pleasure shoots through Stiles, from the base of his spine up to his hairline, as Stuart presses his tongue to the base of Stiles' cock and licks a slow, hot stripe along the hard flesh.

Stiles hisses sharply, hands dropping to fist into the bedding on either side of him as he lowers his eyes to watch his brother as about a billion thoughts fly through his head. He ignores them all and concentrates on how good it feels to flex his toes, to tense the muscles of his legs as Stuart laps at the head of his cock. He sounds softly at the tight coil of pleasure in his groin as his lips lift off the bed in a greedy gesture, and Stuart just grins lopsided before wrapping his lips around the dark head of Stiles' dick and sucks him wet and firmly.

“Do, uh...” Stiles breathes, dropping his head back with a soft groan as Stuart slowly sinks his mouth down around Stiles' cock, lips memorizing every ridge and smooth plane. “Do you know what to do?”

The two of them had jacked off to countless videos together over the past year, but most of the time it was straight porn. There was something that always felt weird about watching two guys fucking when they hadn't done that together yet, like they were worried it would sully that sacred unknown between them. Like they didn't want to be influenced by anything but their own passions and desires.

Stuart curls his hand around the base of Stiles' cock, resting the edge of his fist against his brother's pelvis as he sucks back up along his length, tongue pressing and dragging along the sensitive underside. He lifts his other hand and snaps his fingers at Stiles to get his attention, before pointing to the lube and condoms on the nightstand just so he doesn't have to take his mouth off of his twin's dick.

Stiles scowls a bit at the thought of having to complete such an easy, tiny task when all he wants to do is lay there and let the pleasurable warmth roll over him, but he does as he's told. His hand slaps around on the wooden surface a few times before grabbing the bottle, which he tosses down at Stuart's head, missing him. The condoms, however, do actually hit his brother in the face.

“You're such a fucking brat,” Stuart complains after pulling his mouth off of Stiles' with a lewd sucking sound, immediately reaching for the lube as he tries to retain some dignity by not rutting his own aching dick against the mattress.

“Good thing you love me, huh?” Stiles says, his voice thick as he props up slightly on his elbows to watch Stuart, both of their mouths hanging agape as if in intense concentration, and in a way, they sort of are. This is all completely new for them; exciting and intense. It's the last boundary to cross and it _means_ something.

Stuart climbs up to kneel between Stiles' legs, his eyes gleaming strangely as he stares at his brother, one hand curled around the small bottle of lube and the other moving to squeeze Stiles' thigh warmly. “I love you more than _anything_ , Nim,” he says in all seriousness. “You're more important to me than anyone else.”

Stiles feels his chest clench, because while he does love his brother with everything that he is, he knows that one day soon this is going to have to end. They can't do this forever, and he aches every time he thinks about how much that's going to break him. Break Stuart.

“Ditto,” Stiles whispers with a silly, love-struck and sex-dumb smile. He snickers and falls back onto his back as a pillow smacks him in the face, and before he can retaliate Stuart's hand is smacking him on the hip, telling him to lift up so he can shove the pillow under Stiles' ass.

“I read this this makes it feel better,” Stuart says, the tips of his ears going red because that's how Stuart blushes, as opposed to Stiles who just goes splotchy on his cheeks. “And I want to make you feel good.”

“I feel...” Stiles begins, scraping his teeth over his lower lip and squirming a bit as his back adjusts to the new curve of his spine and his eyes dig holes into the ceiling. “Yeah, I feel kind of really slutty like this,” he laughs. One of his hands reaches up to rub over his own hip, oddly appreciative of the hard curve of his hipbone and the taut, smooth stretch of skin there.

“You _look_ slutty,” Stuart grins, swatting Stiles' hand away from himself as he finally opens the lube. “I like it.”

“If I look slutty then you look slutty,” Stiles throws back, feeling his cheeks heat, and he realizes he can't stop smiling. Nervous energy. _Oh my god, oh my god, this is really happening_.

“Cool,” Stuart says with a grin as he hunches over Stiles and nuzzles into his stomach, branding his smile, his teeth, and his tongue into his brother's skin. He distracts with hot, open-mouthed kisses, tongue dipping and prodding into Stiles' bellybutton as a hand reaches to grab under Stiles' knee, tugging a slender leg up and around his hip, lazily spreading his younger brother's thighs even more.

Stiles drops a hand down and scratches his blunt nails over Stuart's scalp, his skin thrumming with anticipation, but he doesn't have to wait long because Stuart is just as impatient as Stiles. A slick, clumsy finger bumps up against his hole and prods, rubbing firmly against the tight ring of muscle, and Stiles digs his heel into Stuart's back and unconsciously pushes up against it. Both boys moan softly as they pass that first barrier, because now it really feels like sex and not just two dumbasses teenagers screwing around.

“I wish dad wasn't home,” Stiles says, biting off the end of the word in a tight groan as Stuart's finger slowly pushes into him, angling into his body in a way that his own fingers never could. “– _fuck_... I don't want to have to be quiet,” he laughs silently, fingers gripping at his brother's hair as Stuart rests his cheek on Stiles' hip, intent and content to concentrate fully on the feel of slowly fingering his twin's tight ass open.

“I don't mind,” Stuart murmurs, his finger curling inside of Stiles and coaxing out a whimper that shoots straight down to his own cock. “I like you all pent up.” He slides his mouth in to kiss sloppy at the base of Stiles' dick, just as he pushes a second finger inside of his little brother.

Stiles winces slightly and squirms against the tight intrusion, but the pleasure of Stuart's lips and tongue sliding over his hard flesh could make anything feel better. “ _Mm_... like that,” he sighs, lips parting around a few hot panting breaths as he slips his other leg up to curve around his brother’s back, heel digging and sliding along Stuart's spine.

Stuart drags his lips along Stiles' cock before sucking lightly at the swollen head, his fingers scissoring and stretching his brother as he tongues at the slit, groaning softly at the salty musk of precum. “Hn... can I do three?" he husks, his toes digging into the bedding, curling as he gets a knee under him to lift his hips, relieving the pressure against his groin.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, his voice roughened with want. He slips his fingers out of Stuart's hair to give him more freedom to move, before sliding both of his hands up over his head and grabbing his pillow, half-tugging it over his eyes as he rocks his hips restlessly against Stuart's thrusting fingers.

The air between them is hot and scented with barely-constrained hunger, and by the time Stuart eases a third digit in past Stiles' rim, the younger twin is whining with each slick slide. He's not completely open yet, he's not _totally_ ready yet, but they both know that his first time won't be without pain, and Stuart just _knows_ that Stiles would rather ride it out on his cock than on his fingers. He can _feel_ it.

“I'm gonna–” Stuart murmurs, cutting himself off with a few slow drags of his tongue along the full length of Stiles' cock, his pupils blown as he stares at his brother's length, at the sheen of precum and spit that slicks his stomach.

“Yeah,” Stiles groans, swallowing thickly as his hands tighten in the pillow before shoving it back off of his face with a heady exhalation of breath as Stuart gently slides his fingers out. “Fuck, this is–”

“Perfect,” they both say in tandem. Stiles grins lazily as Stuart moves up, dropping a hasty kiss to his lips as his hands tear the condom wrapper open, the sound like a shotgun blast in the room. They're both suddenly acutely aware of what's about to happen, and Stiles holds his brother's gaze the entire time Stuart's fingers move over himself, rolling the latex down over his own dick.

“Okay, Nim?” Stuart whispers, his dark eyes nearly black as they bore into Stiles', and the younger man just nods and grins a weak, silly grin.

“More than,” Stiles says as he leans up to steal another kiss. “Now get inside of me before I roll you over and take you like the bitch you are.”

Stuart draws back a bit, his eyebrows hitching up as he matches that grin, but there's promise in his; promise and challenge. “Oh, you're gonna get it, now,” Stuart laughs as he slinks back down Stiles' body and settles back on his heels, grabbing the lube and slicking himself over the condom. “I'm gonna fuck your brains out.”

“That might take a really long time,” Stiles smirks, curling his long legs loosely around his brother once more as he drops a hand down his stomach to tug lazily at his own sensitive cock. “I'm pretty damn smart and I don't think you can last that long.”

“You're such a shithead,” Stuart laughs softly as he lines himself up with his brother’s stretched hole, nudging the head of his own neglected length against it as if in search of some unspoken permission. They both tense a bit and hold their breath, staring at each other for a few seconds before Stuart leans down and presses his lips against Stiles' in a hard, searing kiss just as he pushes himself inside.

The sound Stiles makes is guttural, and Stuart feels him immediately tense up, muscles going rigid as if trying to instinctively push Stuart out. “ _Relax_ , Nim,” he gasps against Stiles lips, his own head swimming as he summons all of his willpower not to just fuck into Stiles, because he doesn't want to hurt his brother any more than he knows he has to. “You have relax.”

“Fuck, _fuck_ , I'm trying,” Stiles strains as he pulls his legs up higher, opening himself up wider and rocking his hips against Stuart's cock. One hand grabs his headboard as the other clutches at the back of Stuart's neck and forces the kiss deeper, trying to distract himself by sucking hard at his brother's tongue.

It takes a few painful thrusts before Stuart is in completely, and by the time he stills inside of his brother, Stiles is shaking gently, his lashes wet with the kind of tears that spring up when you stub your toe or slam your fingers in a door. The kind that dry up just as quickly as they well.

“Y'okay?” Stuart murmurs, lips brushing over Stiles lower lip, chin, his jaw; kissing him absently, everywhere.

Stiles sucks in a long, deep breath through his nose and just nods a few times, his nails digging with affection and determination into the meat of Stuart's shoulder. “It's not gonna feel any better until you start to fuck me,” he whispers, and they both laugh softly at the obvious wisdom of that.

Stuart drops to rest his forehead in the crook of Stiles neck and nods, pressing his lips against his brother's collarbone as he pulls out and pushes back in slowly, both of them groaning low in their throats as heat crawls their skin.

Within a minute Stiles is rocking his hips up, meeting each of Stuart's thrusts with an equal passion. He's open and his body is receptive, and every slick-tight thrust feels fucking amazing. They're grunting and hissing out each tightly-constrained sound, because the fear of being found is ever present, and covers them like hot pricks of pleasure over their skin.

One of Stuart's hands is tight on Stiles' thigh, gripping so hard they both know he'll have tiny finger bruises tomorrow. His other hand slides up to cup the side of his brother's face, thumb pressing against Stiles' open lips before slipping inside of his mouth and stoking along his tongue, earning a desperate groan from Stiles before he closes his lips around it and sucks hard.

“ _Fuck_ , Nim,” Stuart gasps, feeling the wrap of those hot lips twisting tight in his groin, sending his thrusts into hard, erratic rhythm. Stiles whines and drags his nails down the length of his brother's back before grabbing a handful of Stuart's ass, his legs hanging open wantonly, heels hooked and digging into Stuart's lower back. His other hand shoves between their sweat-slicked bodies and grabs at his own cock, a shuddering moan tonguing around Stuart's thumb as he starts jerking his own dick, feeling himself filling back to full hardness in seconds as he works himself exactly how he likes it.

They can take their time when they _have_ the time, but right now it's just a desperate race to get off before they're discovered.

“ _Yeah_ , god...” Stuart groans, lifting himself up a bit and ducking his head so he can watch Stiles' hand moving quickly over his cock, trying to time his thrusts with the pace his younger brother is setting for himself. “Come _on_ , Nim... wanna see you come,” he says, his voice rough and throaty as he bites at Stiles' shoulder, his own orgasm building quickly at his groin. “Want to _feel_ you lose it around me.”

Stuart knows Stiles' sounds, knows how his voice pitches when he's getting close, and the smell of sex is so ripe in the air he can hardly keep from just fucking into Stiles until he begs for release. He's a little surprised when Stiles comes so suddenly, his body tensing and shaking as his hips stutter and buck. His cock twitches in his hand as he slides his fist up to squeeze just beneath the head, jerking out his come with short, fast tugs.

“ _Holy fuck_ ,” Stiles gasps, his eyelids fluttering furiously as he slicks his own stomach with release, and Stuart makes no apologies as he presses their torsos together so he can feel it against his skin, too. Stiles grits his teeth and keens lowly as Stuart fucks him through his orgasm, both hands now gripping at the older twin's ass as Stiles encourages his brother to come with each rock of his hips and soft cry that catches in his throat.

Stuart fills his condom with a hot, panting moan that's muffled against the side of Stiles' throat, and within seconds he's stretched out bonelessly on top of his little brother, cock twitching through the vestiges of his orgasm because Stiles is still so nice and hot and snug around him.

“Damn, that was fun,” they both whisper at the same time, before letting out weak, surprised chuckles and making a pathetic attempt at eye contact that really just consists of them rolling their heads lazily in the vague direction of the others' head.

“Jinx, dick,” they both mutter in tandem, before their lips meet in a soft, warm kiss.

 

Stuart sleeps in Stiles' bed that night, their limbs intertwined and faces close. They breathe the same air and maybe even share the same dreams. And somewhere during the darkest time of night, the time when magic wants to come out and play, something happens.

Something changes.

 

"Uh, hey dad? Is there any for me?" Stiles asks as he walks into the kitchen on Saturday morning, glancing at his dad's empty plate and the one Stuart's currently eating off of, and then over at the pan that's very empty of either eggs or bacon.

"Oh, crap," the Sheriff groans as he's shrugging into his jacket and edging toward the door. "Sorry, kiddo; I'd make more but I have to run. They called me in last minute. I think there's some Pop Tarts in the pantry?"

He yells a good-bye to both of his sons before rushing out the door, leaving Stiles staring blankly at the space where his father had just stood, before looking back at Stuart who smirks up at him.

"There aren't any Pop-Tarts," Stuart says with the innocence of nothing innocent at all.

"What the hell," Stiles grumbles, giving his smug brother the side-eye before stealing his last piece of toast and cramming it into his mouth until his cheeks bulg like a chipmunks.

Stuart just smiles pleasantly and lifts his eyebrows a bit before taking the last bite of his eggs. “What time are we meeting up with everyone?”

“Ten,” Stiles mutters around his mouthful of food, and he casts one last annoyed look at his brother before moving into the kitchen to scrounge for something more substantial to eat.

 And as if to add insult to injury, Stuart once again calls keys to the Jeep before Stiles can.

The air's crisp, the sun's bright, and the parking lot smells vaguely of crappy pizza, cotton candy, and something sour and kind of rotten as the group of Beacon Hills teenagers descends on the family fun center.

“These probably weren't the best shoes to wear for mini-golf,” Lydia says as she glances down at her heels, then back out at the expansive miniature golf course. Connected to it is a huge Go-Kart track, and then a large building that contains a restaurant and an arcade, as well as a shop for trading tickets in for prizes.

“Probably not,” Stuart laughs. “But they look nice. And if your feet start to hurt, I'd be more than happy to carry you around on my back.”

“Right,” Lydia looks at him with a playful impassiveness. “And I'm sure the fact that I'm in a skirt has nothing to do with that offer.”

“Hey, I am the very model of innocence and naivete!” he protests, holding his hands up with a grin. “I'm wounded that you would try and turn my chivalrous offer around and make it something dark and perverted.”

Lydia just snorts and rolls her eyes before turning and marching toward the entrance, her well-manicured fingers gesturing for Stuart to follow her, which he very obediently does.

“I don't like it,” Stiles says to Scott from a good twenty feet behind as they meander slowly after Stuart and Lydia, Stiles' arms folded and his eyes narrowed as he peers after his brother and his long-time crush. "I don't like him going out with her." Scott's trying to pretend like he's not watching Isaac and Allison the same way, and neither one of them is commenting on the fact that to the outsider observer, the two of them look like the happy gay couple out with all of their straight friends.

“Are you still into her?” Scott asks quietly, their shoulders bumping as they try and keep their conversation quiet, though Isaac _does_ glance over curiously, in a really awful attempt at appearing nonchalant. Can't escape werewolf hearing.

“Yes and no?” Stiles frowns a bit and shrugs. “I don't know. Maybe it's more that I just kind of don't trust him with her. Does that sound crazy?”

“No,” says a voice behind both of them. Scott turns smoothly, his eyes only a little wide as he _thought_ he'd smelled Derek, but this only confirms it. Stiles, on the other hand, trips over his own foot in his haste to spin faster than a professional figure skater, but before his ass meets the concrete sidewalk out in front of the ticket booth, Derek grabs him easily by the front of the hoodie and hauls him back upright again.

“What's up?” Scott asks, his tone hushed as he steps in closer to Derek, his eyes darting between the older wolf and his best friend; watching the two of them watch each other for a little longer than necessary before Derek lets go of Stiles' hoodie, leaving the younger man to straighten himself out.

“Nothing,” Derek says with a look to Scott. “I just really love mini-golf.”

“You do not,” Stiles scoffs with a laugh.

“Yeah, I do,” Derek says defensively.

“No, seriously, what's going on?” Scott asks again, letting out a short laugh because it's always funny when Derek jokes around. Because he has to be joking around, right?

“I'm _seriously_ here for mini-golf,” Derek says again, his expression as serious as any other time Derek is conscious. Or maybe even unconscious.

Stiles tongues ones of his back molars and narrows his eyes slightly before throwing a thoughtful look at Scott. Scott just lifts his eyebrows and shrugs a bit, canting his head at Stiles.

“Yeah, okay big guy,” Stiles says before making a sweeping gesture toward the ticket booth. “Let's see how long you last with the mighty _plethora_ of blue balls jokes I plan on making today.”

Derek quirks an eyebrow as Scott snickers and jogs over to grab a bucket of golf balls for them, tipping it to show Derek that all of the balls inside are a dark blue.

“Scott! Be gentle, man!” Stiles yells out before making a wibble face. “You should never handle blue balls like that.”

“Oh! Sorry, bro,” Scott says, trying not to laugh as he pretends to be chastised before pulling two golf balls out and tossing them to Stiles, both of them ignoring the annoyed harried-looking mother who's herding a birthday party of young kids in the opposite direction. “Here, show me how to hold them.”

Stiles catches them easily and holds them both gently in one hand before slowly rolling them around in his palm like they're a pair of Baoding balls. “ _This_ is how you handle blue balls,” Stiles says before he and Scott dissolve into the sort of immature laughter that only two sixteen-year-olds can find endearing.

Derek just rolls his eyes and ends up paying the entrance fee for all three of them.

Twenty minutes later and Derek is losing horribly, but that's to be expected since he's absolutely terrible at mini-golf. There's also the fact that he can't keep his eyes off of Stuart, so much to the point that Stiles finally lifts his putter and smacks the werewolf in the middle of the chest with it.

Not hard. Well, maybe a little hard.

“Dude,” he hisses in annoyance, giving Derek his best 'what the fuck?' look as he finally reclaims the former alpha's attention. “If you want to see him naked so bad, just go ask him. He'll probably put out.”

“What?” Derek asks, his expression pinching up like he's just tasted some sour.

“You keep staring at Stu like you want to chew his clothes off,” Stiles retorts, trying to keep the sullen tone out of his voice.

“I'm not–” Derek begins to protest, but stops talking just as Stuart turns and makes eye contact with him, giving him a wink. A fucking _wink_. Derek growls low which earns Scott's attention, his hand moving to grab Derek's shoulder.

“Okay, you lied earlier about being here for mini-golf,” Scott says softly as he encourages Derek's eyes away from Stuart and onto his own. “But I let it slide because it wasn't a big deal. Now it's apparently a big deal, man. So what the hell is going on with you?”

“Is something wrong with Stu?” Stiles asks, looking concerned as he glances between Derek and his brother, who seems to be having a great time pulling out all the cheesy romance movie moves on Lydia, including wrapping his arms around her from behind to help her putt her ball.

“I don't know,” Derek lies, flashing his eyes at Scott in an attempt to silently plead that the young alpha not say a word. “It might be nothing. I just keep getting a–”

“A vibe,” Stiles sighs with a nod, before shaking his head at Derek. “Yeah, Scott told me. But seriously, we're fine. Nothing's come to try and eat us, okay?”

Derek huffs and gives a curt nod, which apparently satisfies both of the boys who turn back to the huge plastic and wood castle, each arguing the best strategy for getting their blue balls into the hole with the least amount of strokes. Derek glances away when Stiles starts fisting his hand along the shaft of his putter and looks back at Stuart, who's staring straight at him, Lydia happily distracted by chatting with Allison.

Derek blinks and worry creases his brow as Stuart's body fuzzes out, like a watercolor painting bleeding past the lines. He looks away and shakes his head a bit before glancing back up through his lashes and cocking his head, only to see Stuart's lips curve into a grin as his expression jolts away like a bad film edit, revealing nothing but a smooth, featureless, flesh-colored egg sitting on top of the older twin's body.

“Gotcha, fucker,” Derek whispers to himself, before casting a look at Scott who gives him the 'this is the last time I'm gonna ask you' look, but Derek doesn't let it go that far. He tosses his putter at the alpha and gives a nod to Stiles before turning and walking off toward the park's exit without a word, leaving the rest of the kids staring after him in confusion.

 

“You were right, he's back,” Derek announces grimly as he walks resolutely into the veterinarian's office, staring at Deaton who's seated at an old desk, doing what looks like paperwork.

“You're sure?” Deaton asks as he looks up, his expression as near unreadable as usual as his hand tightens around the pen he's holding, but there's something behind his eyes. Something despairing.

“Positive,” Derek nearly growls through his teeth as he folds his arms, his body tense.

Deaton nods a few times before very pointedly setting down his pen and shuffling the papers into a folder, before setting them aside and standing with a sigh. “Then you know what to do. I'll start preparing things on my end.”

Derek simply nods before turning on his heel and walking out.

 

"Lydia and I are going out again tonight," Stuart boasts as he catches up with Stiles Monday after school. Both of the boys dart their eyes to the side to peer at the pretty redhead who's standing by her locker, talking to Allison. "I might see if she wants to come over after, since dad's going to be working late. What do you think?"

"Do what you want," Stiles mutters and distracts himself with his locker lock, and indulging a quick fantasy where he has werewolf strength and can rip his locker door off and smack his brother cartoonishly upside the face with it.

"I mean, you know... _invite her over_ ," Stuart practically air-quotes as he leans in conspiratorially, giving Stiles a pointed look.

"Uh... okay," Stiles cocks his head, returning a look of slight confusion. "You invite her over as intensely as you want to. But I recommend not bugging your eyes out so much. I don't think she'd be into that."

Stuart rolls his eyes and shoulders into his brother. "Dumbass, I meant for _us_. You know, for _both_ of us? See if she's into _that_?"

Stiles turns his head so fast he considers suing Stuart for whiplash. "...Seriously? Are you freaking crazy?" Stiles hisses, looking around paranoid. "We can't tell people."

"Don't worry, little bro; I will handle it,” Stuart says as he wraps a hand affectionately around the back of Stiles' neck and draws his face in close, sending a warm little crawl over Stiles' skin. “She'll never say a word to anyone, okay? Trust me."

And Stiles does to an extent. He trusts Stuart to protect his own ass first and above all, but that typically means protecting Stiles' ass, too. He's gnawingly curious to know _how_ Stuart is going to maneuver this one, because if he can manage to get Lydia to agree to this _without_ her going ballistic on them both and _without_ endangering their friendship, Stiles will give him a freaking trophy.

There's a little guilt, sure. It's manipulative and kind of unethical. But it's _Lydia_ , and sometimes it's a lot easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. She'd totally understand, Stiles thinks as he walks to class. She's kind of a dude when it comes to sex, right?

“Yeah, she'll understand,” Stiles murmurs to himself. “Right after stabbing me in the eye with one of her pointy little shoes. Dumb. I am _so dumb_.” He groans softly and runs a hand through his hair before slipping into chemistry.

At 8:17pm that night, Stiles is almost close to regretting not stopping this before it began, but he doesn't have the chance to change his mind, flee, or hide, because suddenly Stuart is down the stairs and at his side on the couch, his eyes bright, lips swollen, and cheeks flushed.

“We're in,” he whispers intensely, hands grabbing at Stiles' shoulders and giving him an excited shake before grabbing him up to his feet. “She's down. I _knew_ she'd be down. Damn, she's so cool.”

“Tau,” Stiles whispers in return, unsure of why they're whispering but okay, he can go along with it. “What did you say to her? Is she _seriously_ okay with this? You better not be springing some screwed up surprise on her.”

Stuart snorts and shakes his head as he straightens Stiles' clothes, despite the fact that he's hoping to have them off some time in the next five minutes.

“I legitimately just asked her how she felt about twins,” Stuart snickers. “She gave me this look like I'd gotten her a pony for Christmas, no lie. She's _so_ into this so let's go.” He smacks Stiles on the chest and grins, before tugging at his brother's arm and dragging him up to Stiles' bedroom – of course – where the goddess of all of Stiles' fantasies, both pre- and post-pubescent, is stretched out on his bed like an unnaturally gorgeous pin-up queen.

“Wow,” Stiles breathes, his mouth hanging pen as he takes her in; the dewy almost-glow to her skin, the amazingly radiant shine to her hair, and the way her eyes burn with a fire so intense he's almost afraid to step forward. Her dusty rose bra and panties, which are basically more lace than anything else, almost seem to meld with her creamy skin, and it's all Stiles can do not to bolt from the room, so thank god for Stuart behind him.

“Right?” Stuart whispers in his ear, grinning fiercely against Stiles' cheek as his hands snake around to grab the hem of his twin's shirt so he can tug it off of Stiles.

“Uh... hey, Lydia,” Stiles manages, saying the only words he's ever really managed to say whenever he feels flustered around her, because when it's just them and there's no monsters to kill, then he has to remember how he feels about her. He's almost detached as Stuart drops his shirt on the floor and unfastens his jeans, though his skin heats with a flush and his pulse flutters fiercely at the hot, wet lick-scrape of his brother's mouth over his shoulder, and the possessive press of a hand against his stomach even as Stuart’s yanking his jeans and boxers down with his other hand.

“You know,” Lydia murmurs as she rolls onto her stomach and kicks her legs up to cross daintily at the ankles, her chin resting in her hands as she watches the twins. “I actually thought Stuart was lying when he told me about you two. I would have bet money on it just being a ploy to get me into bed, and though I generally don't like surprises...” she trails off, perfect red lips parting in a soft breath as she watches Stuart's hand move down to curl around Stiles' quickly hardening length, eliciting a soft hum and shiver from the younger twin.

“You like this one?” Stuart asks with a smirk as he reaches to the dresser and grabs a condom from the box he'd bought the other day and slaps it against Stiles' chest, sniggering softly as his brother reaches up automatically to take it, though his eyes never once leave Lydia.

“You sure?” Stiles asks her, because she's his _friend_ now and he's actually really happy with that. He'd be crushed to lose her, but the very real chance to get to _be_ with her is way too good to pass up.

Lydia just shrugs and smiles prettily before beckoning Stiles closer with a curl of her perfect little fingers. He knows that should bother him, her languid reaction, but the human brain has a very bad habit of being a little _too_ protective. The way we can talk ourselves into even the stupidest situations by making them seem like great ideas in our own heads is just incredible.

Her skin is soft, just like he knew it would be. Warm on her stomach, her thighs, her throat, but her breasts and arms are a little cool to the touch. He spends a little overly long tonguing at her nipples, because the sounds she makes as he drags his hot, slick tongue over her cool, sensitive skin is pretty much addicting.

He's forgotten Stuart is even still in the room by the time Lydia's legs wrap around the backs of his thighs, her heels digging in as she demands he give her what she want. His relief that they can grin at each other, that they can _laugh_ at her bossiness and his nervousness; it makes all the difference. And the fact that she exhales heavily when he finally sinks inside of her, that she'd been holding her breath... Stiles buries his face into her throat so she can't see him blush.

It's not until he's lost in her that he notices the lingering smell of incense in the air, in her hair, on her skin, and the slight haze that's giving everything that dreamlike quality. The veil over their eyes. His stomach suddenly lurches as his brain floods with knowledge he doesn't actually know, but he's suddenly acutely aware of. Knowledge that maybe Lydia didn't actually want to do this; that maybe Stuart compelled her with mild-altering incense. That maybe Stuart air-roofied one of Stiles' best friends, and then he air-roofied _Stiles._

Stiles doesn't know how he knows this, but he thinks... he thinks that this shouldn't be happening.

With a heavy breath and an almost apologetic brush of his lips against her's, Stiles pulls out of Lydia and clambers to his feet, and has Stuart pressed up against the wall quick as a flash. His palms press firmly against Stuart's shoulders, his fingers digging into the skin around his brother's collarbones as his eyes flash dangerously dark.

“What the hell did you do to her? To _us_?” he hisses, knowing he's probably acting and sounding crazy right now, and as if to further cement that dark thought, Stuart merely cocks his head and lifts the side of his mouth in a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

“I don't know what you’re talking about, Nim,” Stuart lies. He just bold-faced lies right to Stiles' face, but the younger twin starts losing his resolve the moment he feels Stuart's fingers pressing and sliding along his achingly hard cock, his latex-encased skin hot and tight and slicked with _Lydia_ fucking _Martin_.

“Uh, boys?” Lydia says from the bed, her voice a little thick and tight as she pushes herself up a bit. Her eyes are glassy and her skin is all perfect and glowy in the low light, and Stiles' suddenly can't think of anything other that the twitch and throb of his own dick, the way Stuart's palm and fingers always fit so perfectly around him, and the way Lydia's cunt felt so amazing and hot and tight, and _goddamnit_. Fuck _._ “I get that there's some unspoken macho brother thing happening here,” she smirks. “But I'm not ready to be done yet. In fact, I'm pretty far from, so..."

“Stiles, I really need you back right here, okay?” Lydia licks her lips and reaches to pat the bed right between her spread thighs. “And Stuart, you're free to join us any time, because I am _really_ enjoying that thing you're doing to Stiles right now.” She leans back on her elbows and rolls her hips a bit, toes clenching against the bedding as she watches the two brothers together with a glassy sheen to her eyes. “I wouldn't mind watching more of that.”

Stiles makes a sound, halfway between choked and whining as he stares at Lydia, one hand slipping away from Stuart's shoulder as he half-turns, but can't bring himself to step away from the familiar hand that's working over his cock. Stuart takes this opportunity to grab his brother's other wrist and tugs his hand away, before turning Stiles back around to face Lydia.

“Go finish her off like a fucking man, you dumb shit,” Stuart murmurs, nipping at Stiles' earlobe before shoving him back toward the bed. “I'll be right behind you.”

Stuart watches as Stiles climbs back into the bed, all reverent touches and kisses to Lydia's pretty pink flesh before she grabs him and yanks him back on top of her, like she can't believe he'd ever want to be anywhere else. She kicks her slender legs around his hips and squeezes him back down firm against her, and while her moan is throaty and a little wanton as he thrusts back into her heat, _she's_ the one that sets the pace.

Lydia likes control in _all_ the walks of her life, Stuart can tell, and as he tugs off his clothes and walks over to the bed, he's definitely eager to see where she'll put _him_.

 

The next day at lacrosse practice, Stiles is racking his brain trying to think of a way to tell Scott about Lydia while managing to leave Stuart out of it completely, when Coach's shrill whistle cuts through the air.

"We have a new player,” Coach announces, and both Stiles and Scott glance up from their spots on the bench. On the bench now only because the team hasn't started practice yet, not because the bench is their only option. Not anymore.

“Uh, coach?” Scott calls out, lifting his hand a bit awkwardly before dropping it and looking slightly confused. “How come we didn't know about this before? Shouldn't I have at least been consulted?”

“Don't be a dictator, McCall. You all already know Stilinski,” Coach Finstock says as Stuart comes walking out wearing a lacrosse pinny, shorts, and pads... just like everyone else. “You know, he's brothers with the _other_ Stilinski–” he points to Stiles. “–and he's already scrimmaged with us enough times that I didn't think a try-out was necessary. He's _good_ , and you guys know it. So stop whining like little girls and let's get going!” Coach claps his hands a few times before blowing his whistle.

"Wait, wait, wait; why am _I_ the other Stilinski?!” Stiles calls out in protest as he stands, waving his hand in the general direction of his brother, who's practically lounging next to Coach and smirking. “I've been on the team since Freshman year!"

"Because _this_ one is actually gonna score some points for me this season," Coach states with a smiles that has Stiles wanting to throw lacrosse balls at his teeth.

"I won a game!” Stiles exclaims, looking around at all of his other teammates who are climbing to their feet, feeling major annoyance crawling his skin as most of them are rolling their eyes at him; some are even muttering to each other and throwing amused looks his way. “I won a game for you! An _entire game_!"

“Stop being so needy, other Stilinski,” Coach says. “If you want to cry and talk about your feelings, then do it with Greenberg after practice. Now get your ass out there, unless you'd like to reclaim your rightful seat on the throne for another season?” he points to the bench Stiles has just stood up from before following the rest of the team out onto the field.

Stiles sends an appalled look at his brother, who just smiles and winks at him before jogging out to be greeted with handshakes and back-pats from Stiles' – no, now _their –_ teammates.

"What is happening here?" Stiles asks Scott, the look on his face one that he's pretty sure the only remaining sane person in the world would adopt.

“Hey, don't worry about it,” Scott says from next to Stiles, an encouraging smile on his face. “Coach is right; Stuart's pretty good, and you guys get along great. So what's the big deal? Should be fun.”

“Fun?” Stiles protests, watching Scott's back as he runs out to join the rest of the team, leaving Stiles to sigh dramatically before trudging out like he's walking to the executioner's block. “Yeah, fun like getting my face smashed in with a brick.”

“That's pretty kinky, other Stilinski,” snickers Danny, and Stiles just throws a mocking laugh at his sort-of-friend before smacking him on the arm with a lacrosse stick.

 

“Why didn't you tell me?” Stiles asks as soon as Stuart climbs into the Jeep after practice, freshly showered and smiling; a stark contrast to Stiles' who's moping and still smells like two hard hours of running, sweat, and dirt since he'd opted out of team bonding in the locker room.

“What's the big deal?” Stuart asks, immediately slipping an arm around the back of the driver's side seat and leaning in to press his forehead against Stiles' temple. “I just wanted to spend more time with you, okay?”

“I just wish you'd told me,” Stiles sighs, feeling his little head of steam dissipating the moment Stuart's lips graze his ear. “I looked like a jackass out there.”

“Not to me,” Stuart nuzzles at the soft skin behind Stiles' ear, and in the otherwise quiet air of the Jeep, Stiles' breath catches softly. “Maybe I just hate not being around you all the time.”

“That's right... addicted to the Stiles,” Stiles jokes distractedly before turning to catch his brother's lips in a warm, chaste kiss.

Stuart smiles against Stiles' lips as his hand lifts to curve around the side of Stiles' neck. “You have no idea, little bro,” he murmurs. “No idea.”

 

 _‹So, Stu and Scott are hanging out buddies now.›_ Stiles texts to Derek, not really knowing why he's bothering trying to engage the werewolf in conversation. If there was an award for Most Laconic Guy With Great Facial Hair, Derek would be a shoe-in.

That being said, he's a little surprised when he gets a response back, especially considering it isn't along the lines of 'stop texting me if it isn't important', though _‹And I should care why?›_ isn't exactly a giant leap from it.

Stiles taps his fingers on the side of his phone before finally shrugging and hitting 'call'. What the hell?

“What if they become bestest friends in the whole world and Scott gives him the bite?” Stiles says into the receiver the moment Derek picks up on his end. “You'd have to deal with Stu forever.”

 _“Thanks for the nightmares.”_ Stiles smiles because he can practically see Derek's face right now, all scrunched-up and irritated.

“No problem,” Stiles chirps as he slowly paces the downstairs of his house, wandering aimlessly as most people do when they're on the phone.

 _“Is that the only reason you called, Stiles?”_ Derek asks, and Stiles imagines there's something else there; maybe a hopeful tone under-riding the completely disinterested monotone. Maybe just hopeful on Stiles' end. Dumb, more than hopeful, really. Quite happily delusional.

“I'm bored,” Stiles says. Or, really, lonely and unwilling to admit it. “Just felt like complaining to someone who doesn't think the sun shines out of my brother's ass.”

_“I wouldn't know. Out of the two of us, I'm not the one who's familiar with his ass.”_

Stiles balks as ice trails down his spine. He pulls his phone away from his ear and stares at it for a second, before bringing it back up, his hand suddenly shaking a bit. “What the hell are you talking about, Derek?” he asks quietly.

_No one's supposed to know. No one's supposed to know. How does he know?_

Derek's end is silent. It's silent for so long that Stiles checks to see if the call is still connected, which it is. “Derek,” he spits out, his grip on his phone causing his palm to sweat.

 _“Sorry,”_ Derek says a little distractedly. _“I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that.”_

Stiles wants to ask. He wants to ask so badly. He wants to know if him and Stuart have just been fooling themselves this entire time thinking that none of the wolves could smell them on each other, but Scott's never said anything. Never even implied that he knew. His head spins and he sits down at the kitchen table, swallowing thickly.

“Yeah, whatever,” he murmurs, reaching out to grab the saltshaker and shaking some salt out onto the table top. “I hope Peter molests you in your sleep.”

 _“Knowing him, he probably already does,”_ comes Derek's dry response.

Stiles snorts. “Well, I hope you start liking it, jerk.”

_“Stiles, why did you really call?”_

He's silent for a few beats, and sighs heavily before speaking again. “I don't know... I just keep getting this weird feeling in my gut about Stu.”

 _“Tell me,”_ Derek replies, and Stiles is a little taken aback at how curious he sounds all of a sudden, but he's certainly not going to look a gift wolf in the mouth.

“He went out with Lydia a couple times,” Stiles sighs as he presses a fingertips into the tiny grains of salt, though immediately regrets saying it because the last thing he wants Derek to think is that he's still hung up on Lydia. “And it just bugs me because we were just getting to be good friends, and I don't want to lose that with her...” he adds quickly, hoping it doesn't sound too much like backpedaling.

_“You won't.”_

“I guess,” Stiles sighs. “He also transferred into my A.P. History class.”

_“So?”_

“It just throws off our thing,” Stiles says with an adamant shrug as he rubs the salt off his fingers with his thumb. “We've always had this thing where he helps me with math and I help him with history, that way we're both equally smart.” Saying it out loud makes Stiles realize how kind of juvenile it sounds, though. “It's just, I don't know... annoying that he wouldn't tell me beforehand. Oh, and then there's lacrosse.”

 _“He joined the lacrosse team?”_ Derek guesses.

“He joined the frigging lacrosse team,” Stiles complains, a bitter edge to his tone. “No tryout, no nothing. Coach didn't even run it by Scott first, which he should have because, you know, he's still team captain. Just boom! Stuart Stilinski, new team member, automatic first line. And now I'm the _other_ Stilinski,” he sighs, sagging back into his chair. “It feels like pre-werewolves all over again, I swear.”

 _“Have you confronted him about it?”_ Derek asks, and Stiles could swear he hears a little apprehensive curiosity in the werewolf's voice, but it's probably just wishful thinking.

“Yeah,” Stiles says before chewing on his lower lip, cheeks heating a bit as his dick gives a little twitch of remembrance. “He said he just felt like we were drifting apart and wanted to spend more time with me.” _And then he sucked my dick in the parking lot while I tried not to look like I was getting head because people were still out there, and it was so fucking hot I forgave him for everything_ _._ He doesn't say that out loud, of course, and thank fucking god Derek isn't here to see him right now.

_“What do you think?”_

“I guess... I don't have any reason to think he's lying,” Stiles says before bringing his thumbnail up for some heavy-duty chewing. “It's just... I don't know," he says around the nail. "It's like he's invading my space, but it's not bad enough for me to say anything because then _I'll_ sound like the jerk.”

 _“Get your fingers out of your mouth,”_ Derek chides, and Stiles lets his thumb fall away with a bit of a wide-eyed stare at the table. _“Look, if it's bothering you, then tell him. Nothing's going to change if you don't make it change.”_

“Yeah, I guess.”

 _“Don't let him take advantage of you, Stiles,”_ Derek says. _“You're better than that.”_ There's something behind those words that Stiles can't quite grasp; a bit of weight. It makes him blink a bit and smile.

But Derek hangs up before he can say thanks.

 

 

Peter Hale glories in being asked for help.

So when Derek sits him down and thumbs the ash over his eye, lays out the truth, and then asks for his advice, Peter can't help the giddy little feeling that runs through his body. He's been trying to choke down his megalomaniac tendencies ever since the Darach issue, but it hasn't been easy just existing without anything to do. Without anyone to play around with. So he's oddly warmed by the fact that Derek has decided to bring this to his attention.

“I always knew there was something off about that kid,” Peter says as he rubs at the white smear of ash over his eyelid, trying not to get any of it into his eye because he has a feeling it would sting. “Did you ever notice how he'll sometimes glance off into middle-distance? Like he's addressing an invisible audience?”

“No,” Derek says with a frown, and a look at his uncle like Peter's a little off. Typical, really.

“Hm, must just take one to know one, then,” Peter says with an indifferent smile. “Go grab us some dinner. I'll have an answer for you by the time you get back.” And with that he grabs his laptop and walks over to one of the large bookshelves he'd insisted Derek get for him, because the remnants of the Hale library were too precious to be kept in cardboard boxes.

 With a roll of his eyes and a sigh, Derek does as asked. He's gone nearly half an hour before returning with sandwiches from a deli, and is greeted with the hopeful sight of Peter seated at the long table, with a few books open before him and his fingers moving over the keyboard of his laptop.

“Hope you like pastrami,” Derek says as he drops the bag on the table.

“As long as it isn't too peppery,” Peter replies, half-distracted as his eyes scan whatever it is he's reading for a few more seconds, before he shuts the laptop with a punctuated click and leans back in his chair, giving Derek a satisfied smile.

“Well?” Derek prompts, arms folding.

“What's the difference between reality and perception?” Peter asks and Derek just huffs softly.

“I don't want games, Peter,” he grumbles, already impatient. “I want a solution.”

“Derek, as always, you'd prefer to swing a sledgehammer when a ball-peen would do,” Peter sighs as he reaches for the bag and digs into it, pulling out a sandwich for himself and then a second, tossing it to Derek who catches it easily. “Sit. Listen. _Learn_ something.”

Derek grudgingly sits and unwraps his sandwich, a little grateful that he has something to do with his hands and something to chew on so he won't be tempted to argue with his uncle at every turn, which would only be counter-productive. He did go to Peter for advice, after all. As horrible and obnoxious as Peter often is, he knows that his uncle is smarter than him. So he listens.

“First of all,” Peter begins as he unwraps his sandwich and pulls it apart, checking to see if there are, indeed, pickles. “There is _no_ difference between reality and perception, just like there is no difference between solid fact and a consensus reality, because _people_ are the ones who invented the concept of reality.”

Derek gifts him with a blank stare, already a little lost. But Peter has his way, and there's no win in trying to get him to be concise, to the point, or really even linear most of them time. 

“As a people, all sentient life on this planet decided together that red is a color, or that cheese tastes like cheese,” Peter continues as he meticulously rearranges the meat on his sandwich so it's perfect; just the way he likes it, ignoring Derek's deprecating stare. “The problem with doppelgangers is that they use those laws against us; they use the laws of reality to their advantage.”

“How?” Derek asks before taking a large bite of his sandwich, not bothering to fix anything on it. Food was fuel; for Peter, it was pleasure. One of their base, fundamental differences.

“You say you know for a fact that Stuart Stilinski is actually a doppelganger that Stiles created through will and magic,” Peter states with a gesture before putting his sandwich back together again. “That he's a shadow-man from the other side of the mirror. Okay, say I accept that into my paradigm. But let me ask you this; who _told_ you that Stuart was not real? Deaton. And what did he use to prove this to you? He used magic.”

Derek swallows and lifts an eyebrow, expressing his curiosity of the point his uncle was meandering to get to.

“He manipulated the same unidentifiable matter that floats through our reality and bent it to his will, just like Stiles did,” Peter continues. “So from a completely objective, scientific viewpoint, they both basically held out a handful of dust to you and asked you to see each of their handfuls as a completely different thing. What you _have_ to ask yourself is; who has more of a right to work magic? Stiles or Deaton? Because that's the only thing happening here. Who do you want to believe in _more_?”

“Deaton's magic is harmless,” Derek says in a tone that suggests he believes himself completely, though the cinch of his eyes and draw of his eyebrows suggests otherwise. “It just allowed us to see that magic was being used. Stuart is a menace. He's _hurting_ people.”

“Maybe,” Peter shrugs as he picks up his sandwich. “Or maybe he's just trying to hurt _you_ because he sees you as a threat. Maybe if you backed off of Stiles and washed the ash off, then things would go back to whatever 'normal' passes for around here.”

“I can't just do that,” Derek huffs before finishing off the last of his sandwich before Peter had even taken the first bite of his own. “I need to protect him, and I can't voluntarily unsee something I already know to be true.”

“I understand,” Peter says. “I like to think I'd make the same choice as you were I in your shoes, but knowing me, if offered harsh reality verses blissful ignorance, I'd most likely chose the blue pill. Hence why you're the hero and I, most certainly, am not,” he chuckles. “I'll give you what you need to destroy the doppelganger for good, but you have to promise me that you'll talk to Stiles before you use it. _You_ are the one I care about in this situation, not him. If you do this without his consent and he ends up seeking revenge because of it, then I won't be held responsible for my actions.”

“Peter–”

The older Hale simply shrugs and takes a bite of his sandwich, chewing thoughtfully as he watches Derek out of the corner of his eye, the struggle written plainly on his nephew's face.

“Remember that we always have a choice, Derek,” Peter says after swallowing. “You can attempt to make peace with Stuart and try and convince him to live as Stiles' twin without the killing and assuming of identities, or you can simply eliminate the monster and ash everyone's eyes back to the harsh light of presumable truth. But either way you _might_ lose Stiles. So it all boils down to less about your excuse for what's good and right, and more about how you're going to spin this to him to get what you want.”

Before Derek has a chance to answer, his phone buzzes on the table beside him. He grabs it without thought and checks the text message without looking to see who it's from, and is greeted with a short video that very nearly makes him regret the fact that he just ate.

“ _Fuck, Nim... you look so fucking good with my dick in your mouth,”_ comes Stuart's voice, tinny and sounding a little faraway on Derek's phone's speakers.

“What the hell?” Peter says as he looks up from his sandwich just in time to see Derek's eyes grow as big as quarters and glue themselves to the small screen. All thought of Peter's stomach are abandoned, just like his pastrami, and he pushes out of his chair to step up behind his nephew, his eyebrows lifting at the video on the screen.

It's Stiles' bed, from what little the small resolution shows, but the screen is crowded with Stiles' face. His eyes are covered with one of Stuart's hands, the heel of his palm pressed into one and his fingers curled over the other, and from the pressure of Stiles' head indenting the pillow, it looks like Stuart is supporting his weight on Stiles' face.

But that's not the worst of it. The worst is the way Stiles' keeps choking a bit each time Stuart shoves his cock between his brother's lips, the way his throat constricts and bulges like he can't get enough air, and the way his cheeks keep filling each time the head of Stuart's cock misses the back of Stiles' throat.

“Jesus,” Peter hums, folding his arms and leaning back a bit, as if even something like this is a little too much for the older werewolf to witness, despite all of his past transgression. “This is a bit much to make a point, isn't it?”

“ _You love me so fucking much, don't you?”_ Stuart purrs, his voice rough and throaty, and Stiles responds with the most desperate sound either of them has ever heard him make. Derek can feel the back of his neck heating with embarrassment, anger, and some sort of sympathetic arousal, because both the boy's tone and the erratic rock of his hips are enough to suggest how close he is to coming straight down Stiles' throat.

“ _If I wanted to choke you to death right now...”_ Stuart breathes as his hand slips away from his brother's eyes and drops down, long fingers curving tight around the long length of Stiles' throat. _“You'd just let me, wouldn't you? You're so fucking gone...”_ Stuart's tight chuckle is like nails on a chalkboard to Derek, who grips the edge of the table so tightly Peter's shocked it hasn't splintered.

It's then that Stiles' eyelids flutter open to reveal amber eyes that are so glassy and pupils blown with lust, that the wolves have to wonder if he's been drugged. Peter can practically hear Derek's teeth grinding as Start's breathing goes harsh and panting, his fingers digging indents into Stiles' corded throat as he mercilessly fucks his brother's mouth.

“Alright, that's enough,” Peter says suddenly, his tone hard as he snatches the phone away from Derek and shuts it off, rescuing it before it ceases to be a phone and ends up a misshapen brick of broken phone parts on the floor. “Stop torturing yourself. Message well-received.”

“ _Damnit_ ,” Derek growls and pushes up to his feet, hands shoving onto his hips as he prowls around the large, empty loft space. “What the hell is he trying to do? What _was_ that?”

“A power-play,” Peter says calmly. “He obviously knows you know, and he's trying to get you to go after him. Because what will happen if you do?”

Derek snorts derisively and shakes his head. “I immediately lose Stiles' and Scott's trust.”

“Exactly. Don't let him bait you.”

“This ends tonight,” Derek declares, his eyes flashing with an angry, protective light as he walks back up to Peter. “No way I'm giving that _thing_ another day with Stiles. We're taking care of this _tonight_.”

Peter's expression is unreadable as he regards his nephew, but after a few moments he simply nods. “Well, don't forget the brains of your operation,” he drawls as he opens up a blank text to Stiles before slapping Derek's phone back into his hand. “I'll call Scott. We'll work out a plan and I'll text you the details before you meet up with Stiles.”

Derek growls softly in frustration and texts Stiles, asking to meet him in the parking lot of the animal clinic; that he has something to tell Stiles before talking to Deaton. “Okay, so how do we kill it?” he asks, looking back at Peter.

“ _We_ don't,” Peter says, tilting his head. “Stiles does. The only person who can truly kill a doppelganger is the one the doppelganger has come here to kill. It's now up to you to inform Stiles that he has to murder his twin brother with his own bare hands.”

Derek feels his stomach go cold. “Bare hands–”

“It has to be,” Peter says with a shallow nod and an impassive expression. “It's symbolic. Remember, it's _magic_. Stiles has to show both an uncharacteristic strength of will _and_ physical strength, or the doppelganger will be able to overpower him. He essentially has to surprise _himself._ He must take the life of the thing he created back into himself, and that requires skin-to-skin contact. Symbolism, and all that.”

“He's just a kid,” Derek frowns, ignoring the fact that this is all hitting him a little harder than he's comfortable with. “He shouldn't have to do that.”

“We were all 'just kids' once,” Peter says meaningfully. “He'll just have to consider it a growing pain. Stiles doesn't have the luxury of ignorance anymore. He missed his chance for the blue pill.”

Derek glances away and forces a nod before walking over to the couch to grab his keys, wallet, and jacket. The set of his shoulders and the hastiness of all of this, not to mention his reaction to the video; they all suddenly solidify and hit Peter in the chest like a medicine ball.

“Please don't tell me you have feelings for him,” Peter groans softly as he watches Derek walk toward the door of the loft. “Nothing good could possibly come of that.”

“Since when does anything good ever happen to me, anyway?” Derek calls back, shooting Peter a slightly bitter smile as he drags open the sliding metal door and steps out, not waiting for a response before shutting it behind him.

“Yes, yes, touché,” Peter rolls his eyes. “Idiot.”


	2. Two.

It wasn't too difficult to shake Stuart this afternoon. Much to Stiles' annoyance, Stuart had called up Scott independently and asked if the lacrosse team captain wanted to hang out for a bit, maybe throw the ball around and give Stuart some pointers now that he was newly first line, and much to Stiles' _chagrin_ , Scott had agreed.

So, yeah. Now Stuart and Scott are friends who hang out _without_ Stiles. That happened. Stiles is trying to be okay with it, but he can't shake the feeling that something is wonky. He hates it. The phone call with Derek had helped a bit, but it also raised more questions in the Derek camp, instead of just soothing Stiles' Stuart worries.

Stiles was about to settle in for a long afternoon filled with Final Fantasy VIII-2, three bags of Skittles, and a whole heap of self-loathing, when he got Derek's text asking him to meet in Deaton's parking lot. He'd texted back asking why, but had gotten no response, which made him a little nervous. Not nervous in the are-we-all-going-to-die way, but nervous in the weird-butterflies-in-the-stomach way. Weird in the pathetic is-he-going-to-ask-me-to-prom way.

So that's why he finds himself sitting in his Jeep in the nearly-empty parking lot, air-drumming against the steering wheel and singing loudly along with Mike Ness, because air drumming and loud singing help with the excessive energy that the Adderall isn't soaking up.

“Stiles.”

“Holy god!” Stiles yells, one of his flailing fists accidentally punching his horn and blaring it loudly, while the other smacks into the gearshift, causing the Jeep to roll backwards about two feet before Stiles hastily puts it back into park.

“Dude, you need to be more careful!” Stiles yells at Derek as he presses a hand against his heaving chest like a swooning damsel, his pounding heart thudding loudly in the now absence of music. “I almost shanked you with my invisible drumstick. Think of how embarrassing that would have been for you. To go out in such a loser chump way.”

“I'll keep that in mind,” Derek responds dryly before opening the Jeep door for Stiles so he can practically pour himself out onto jelly legs, though still riding the adrenaline of his momentary terror.

Before Stiles can say another word, Derek presses a hand flat against Stiles' chest and pushes him back against his Jeep. There's a witty remark immediately on the tip of Stiles' tongue, something born of a sarcastic defense mechanism so deeply ingrained it might as well be in his bone marrow. He doesn't have the chance to spit it out before Derek pulls his other hand out of his pocket and reaches for Stiles' face, his fingers tipped in white; in ash.

“Derek–” is the only thing Stiles' manages to say before Derek grabs him by the face and presses a finger over his right eye, forcing it shut as he smears something silky and cool over Stiles' eye.

Stiles suddenly, and very violently, remembers this feeling.

“No,” he gasps, reaching up to both simultaneously shove Derek's hand away from him and to grab him; to hold on. To hold on to _something_ so he doesn't fall over, because his entire fucking world is spinning. _Again_. “No, no, _no_...” he yells feebly, feeling no shame as his eyes prick hot with tears, and the skin of his back bites with the cold winter air as he slides down the side of his Jeep and lands on his ass on the dirty parking lot asphalt, his shirt and jacket having ridden up.

Derek is blessedly silent as he crouches down next to Stiles, settling a hand on the shaking boy's knee and just letting the warm weight be whatever comfort it can be as Stiles buries his face in his arms and curls over his bent legs, before wrapping an arm around Derek's and pressing his face against the werewolf's shoulder and just _cries_.

He just cries and doesn't care what Derek thinks, because what else can he do?

“Don't put this all on yourself,” Derek says gruffly as he shifts to sit on the ground next to Stiles, after letting him get out about two minutes' worth of solid, sobbing ranting about how stupid he was and how could he let this happen again? “Nothing productive comes from being that way. Trust me, I know.”

“Well, at least one of us can learn from their mistakes,” Stiles sighs, feeling his lungs labor in that rattling way they got after too much swimming or too much crying. “Good for you. You graduated kindergarten.”

“I didn't do well in kindergarten,” Derek says with a bit of a curve to his lips. “I didn't like to share and I was always on time-out for hitting other kids.”

“I am beyond shocked, really,” Stiles deadpans. “I can just see you holding down some poor little five year old kid and trying to shove a rectangle block into his mouth.”

“Oh, was that you?” Derek asks, glancing sidelong at Stiles with that awkward lift and furrow of his eyebrows that constituted as amusement on the older man's face.

“Ha ha,” Stiles rolls his eyes and nudges a little against Derek's shoulder with his own, finding the wolf's proximity to be comforting. He also hates his brain right now for twisting the silly kindergarten scenario in his head and turning it into Stiles on his back, arms pinned by Derek's knees, while Derek shoves something that's decidedly _not_ a rectangle block into his mouth.

Derek clears his throat and glances away, and Stiles tries to will himself to just die of embarrassment for about the fifty-seven-thousandth time since he'd met Derek Hale, because of course Stiles has no control of his pheromones and Derek has no control of his own senses. So once again, awkward.

So, Stiles just takes control of the situation by licking the back of his hand and reaching over to wipe a smear of ash off of Derek's face, just like a mother cat.

Derek blinks and turns to look at Stiles, perplexed. "Did you just groom me?" he asks.

"I really can't think of anything funnier to pretend that was, so yeah,” Stiles shrugs, giving a little smile.

"Why?"

"Because you had ash on your face,” he states, obviously. “And because it was funny, and I deserve a little joy in my life right now."

Derek says nothing, only glares passively.

"Oh, come on, you're allowed to laugh when something's funny,” Stiles says with a little grin. “I promise no one's going to appear out of nowhere and bitch-slap you for cracking a smile every once in awhile, and even if that _did_ happen, it would also be hilarious and I'd laugh at that, too."

"Shut up."

"Laugh, Derek. Just laaauuugh,” Stiles reaches out and takes Derek by the shoulders, shaking the normally immoveable wolf slightly. “It's good for you! It's healthy! It's-"

Derek punches Stiles lightly on the arm and smiles a bit, closed-lipped.

"Ow,” Stiles says through gritting teeth and leans away, reaching up to rub at his arm. “Of course violence is what makes you smile. How predictable."

Derek shrugs and punches Stiles again, because he thinks kissing him would be both inappropriate and a little too awkward at this very moment.

"Your smile lights the whole parking lot,” Stiles says sarcastically as he rubs at his arm again, while kicking at Derek's shin. “It's like a toddler on Christmas."

"Hurting you fills me with unbridled glee," Derek says with the same intonation as someone saying _I love you_ for the first time, as he reaches down to grab Stiles by the ankle and quickly unties his shoe.

"Wow, you're so charming and mature," Stiles rolls his eyes.

“You're the one that brought up kindergarten,” Derek smirks, hoping that Stiles is suitably distracted enough from the fresh wound of learning about Stuart again, so they can continue talking about what to do next. Which he thankfully is.

“Okay, so you know about Stu,” Stiles sighs after re-tying his shoe and pulling himself to his feet, watching as Derek does the same. “ _How_ do you know?”

“I asked Deaton for some of that ash he put on mine and Scott's eyes,” Derek admits. “After the first time, I didn't want to be tricked by anything like that again. I figured better safe than sorry.”

“You're not exactly sporting a smokey eye for the evening, man,” Stiles gestures toward Derek's face before hastily rubbing at his own eyes with the sleeve of his flannel, as if suddenly remembering the ash on his own face. “So where is it?”

Derek purses his lips and huffs softly before turning his head and leaning in close, to show Stiles the very roughly-tattooed and not nearly as aesthetically-appealing-as-Deaton’s runes for 'sight' behind both of Derek's ears.

“Oh my god,” Stiles squints a bit, his index finger pressing against the tiny tattoo before he draws his hand away quickly, as if acutely aware of the fact that he's just touched Derek without permission. “Did you do those to yourself?”

“No, Peter did them,” Derek admits.

“Did you... set your own head on fire?”

“No,” Derek frowns and gives Stiles an odd look. “What?”

“Fire... like with Scott's tattoo,” he gestures at his upper arm. “You burned his arm. Did you have to..? To your own _head_?”

Derek just grunts and lifts his eyebrows before giving a reluctant nod. “Peter got one of those little mini blowtorches...”

“Dude, you're insane,” Stiles gapes, his expression one of much, _much_ shock and awe. “You let _Peter Hale_ go at your face with a blow torch. That's like a special level of dumbassery.”

“Shut up.”

“He could have set all of your hair on fire just to laugh at you.”

Derek shifts uncomfortably and folds his arms with a sigh. “A little of it _did_ get burned,” he admits, turning his head slightly to the left, as if to hide the side of his head where a bit of his hair may or may not have been slightly shorter.

Stiles snorts suddenly and tries to hide a laugh behind his hands.

“I swear, I'm going to eat your face,” Derek grumbles before grabbing Stiles by the arm and shoving him gently in the direction of the animal clinic.

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles chuckles softly, casting a glance over at Derek as they walk. “Promises, promises.”

 

The meeting with Deaton goes by quickly. It doesn't take more than fifteen minutes to formulate a plan, because the simpler the better. The more convoluted something gets, the better chance of tripping up, and they can't screw up this time.

Stiles can't. He doesn't think his heart could survive.

 

"Do you know what he wants from you?" Derek asks as they're walking back out through the parking lot, back toward Stiles' Jeep. Because Derek has his own suspicions, and of course there's Deaton and Peter's informed and educated guesses, but Derek can't help being curious about what Stiles thinks, now that his mind is clear again.

Stiles sighs and just vaguely gestures around himself, around Derek, even at Derek, before dropping his hands and looking resigned.

"He wants... _me_?" Derek asks, looking unsure but not completely skeptical, because it wouldn't exactly be the first time something evil had used these kids to get at the former alpha.

"No, you narcissistic freak, he wants _my_ life,” Stiles rolls his eyes, shooting Derek an annoyed look, and the werewolf actually has the good grace to look chastised. “Because that's what they do, right? They take the places of humans," he shrugs. “It all makes sense now; Lydia, the lacrosse team, my classes, Scott...”

"But why you?"

"Because I'm the easiest target,” Stiles sneers, unable to keep the venom out of his voice, and he doesn't think he should have to. “I'm the only _normal_ human who has a connection to all of the things that go bump in the night around here. Werewolves, hunters, even a banshee," he counts off his fingers as he laughs resignedly. "I'm the weakest link, and obviously I'm not dealing with it very well. If I was, he wouldn't have been able to get to me in the first place."

"Stiles, you're not weak,” Derek says quietly, feeling it needs to be stated despite the fact that he knows the younger man won't hear it right now.

"Yeah I am," Stiles sighs and shrugs. "Technically, you know? I am. I can't throw a car or leap tall buildings or run a hundred miles in a single day-"

"I can only do maybe sixty," Derek mutters, and Stiles just gives him a glare that's bordering on baleful which earns him an eyeroll and an acknowledging nod from Derek. “Okay, a hundred is pretty easy.”

"But I can get better,” Stiles continues, gesturing toward Derek with a nod. “I can get stronger, faster; I can be less weak. I just never thought I had to before.” He digs a hand into his pocket as they reach the Jeep, pulling out his keys which he fingers anxiously. “But I will, because I'm not gonna be the reason that stuff like this keeps happening. I don't want to be the one that drags you all down again and again."

"Stiles-"

"I'm going to make myself better, Derek,” Stiles declares. “I'm going to matter in every single way that a human can matter, and then I'll find some more ways and I'll matter to those, too. I'm gonna be so amazing that you're all going to have to start keeping up with _me_ ," he laughs softly.

Derek smiles a bit, a quirk of his lips that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "It's good to have goals."

"Can you recommend a protein shake powder, or something?” Stiles asks with a shrug. “Or is it all just, like, raw rabbits and squirrels for you?"

Derek's expression levels out when he realizes that emotion has been traded for sarcasm again, which is likely his cue. "Okay, I'm leaving. I'll meet you at your house."

"You drive here?" Stiles asks, shifting toward his Jeep, but lingering just in case Derek needs a ride.

“Yeah,” Derek says, but immediately, strangely, regrets saying it after realizing that Stiles was offering him a ride.

“Right, of course,” Stiles nods and unlocks the Jeep before pulling out his phone. “I'll text Scott and have him meet us. See you in a bit.”

 

Scott shows up about ten minutes after Stiles gets home, ranting that the next time Stiles sends a _‹_ _DUDE 911 AT MY HOUSE NEED YOU IMMEDIATELY DON'T BRING STU_ _›_ text, there better be blood and body parts because it scared the crap out of him.

“Sorry for the drama,” Stiles says with a wry little smile, and Scott frowns because he can practically smell the sour scent of anxiety and fear leaking off of Stiles.

“What's going on?” Scott asks, his expression and posture melting away to serious alpha, and Stiles immediately feels a bit better; a little safer. It's weird how, despite not being a werewolf, just being around an alpha who gives a shit about you can make you feel safe and protected. Stiles can't even count the ways in which he's grateful for Scott, especially in this moment.

“I need you to help me destroy my evil twin,” Stiles states plainly, in a heavy exhale of breath, like he's been practicing saying those words since sending the text off to Scott.

“Right...” Scott winces lightly, like a kid caught in a lie by his mother, before shuffling forward and leaning into Stiles. He immediately wraps his arms around his best friend and squeezes him in a tight, warm hug. “Crap. I'm so sorry, man. God, I suck. I'm sorry.”

“For...what?” Stiles asks, more confused than anything right now as he hugs Scott back, one of his hands lingering on Scott's ribcage as the shorter boy pulls back a bit.

“I found out from Peter,” Scott confesses, and Stiles actually visibly deflates, looking relieved instead of angry, which is obviously what Scott had been anticipating. “He called me about two hours ago and told me I had to ditch Stu; that he had something really important to tell me. So I went to the loft and he ashed me and, well...”

“Yeah, Derek pretty much ash-attacked me, too,” Stiles chuckles softly.

“I feel like an idiot, though,” Scott groans and rubs at his face. “I completely forgot to track down Stu, and now I have no idea where he is. Do you know his–”

“The name and password for his phone?” Stiles finishes with a smile. “Of course I do. I mean, it's nothing as brilliant and inspired as 'allison', but I'm sure I can figure it out.”

“Damn, you're hilarious,” Scott jokes before jabbing his knuckles playfully into Stiles back and sending him toward the stair, up to his room where his laptop lives. “Just jokes for days, man.”

“Hey, they say if you have great material to work with, the jokes just write themselves.”

“I hate you a little sometimes,” Scott sniggers as he pushes Stiles up the stairs.

“Love you, too, bro,” Stiles smiles.

Fifteen minutes later and Scott and Stiles are sitting on the stairs, with Stiles' laptop in his lap. They've tracked Stuart down to a Denny's about three blocks away from the animal clinic, and Stiles is trying to get his heart-rate under control because he doesn't want to have a panic attack. But he's freaking out because Derek isn't here and Derek isn't answering his phone, and he doesn't know if they can do this without Derek.

He doesn't know if _he_ can.

“We have a plan,” Scott implies with a bit of a verbal foot-shuffle, like he's been putting off this bit for awhile. “It's not going to be easy for you, though. It's probably going to be the hardest thing you ever have to do, and you'll have to trust us inexplicably.”

“'Inexplicably'...” Stiles repeats weakly, giving a soft chuckle as he reaches up to scrub his sleeve over his face. “Still getting those Word of the Day emails, buddy?”

Scott pauses. “Well, yeah–”

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles. Tired. “Okay, yeah... well, I _do_ trust you guys, so let's hear this plan.”

“I know you and Derek worked out part of the plan with Deaton, right?” Scott asks, and Stiles just nods. “Well, basically that's just part one. After Stu takes the bait and shows up at the animal clinic, and Deaton gets the tranq dart into him... that's when you have to step in.”

“I figured,” Stiles says as he shuts his laptop and sets it on the landing behind him.

“Peter told me that...” Scott trails off, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he makes a face; a face Stiles knows all too well. That's the face of a best friend who doesn't want to tell him something heartbreaking.

“It's me, right?” Stiles says quietly as he laces his hands together and squeezes them tight, hoping the painful pressure on his fingers might help relieve some of the tension he's feeling. “I have to...”

“Yeah,” Scott says with a quiet resignation, but before he can continue his attention is pulled by a few family photos Stiles' mom had hung up on the wall of the stairwell. Scott remembers those photos as well as he remembers his own family's photos, but looking at them for the first time since remembering; it's like vertigo.

Stuart's like a ghost in all of them. Like the vague impression of a person. In the photo of Stiles and Stuart holding up their Boy Scout merit badges when they were five, Stiles has his arm thrown around the shoulders of an hazy impression, and the family portrait they'd had taken at Sears when Stiles was nine; it twists Scott's stomach to see both Claudia's and the Sheriff's hands on _Stiles'_ shoulders, instead of on both of their sons like he remembers.

Like he _thinks_ he remembers.

“Jesus,” Scott whispers, before running a hand over his face and through his hair with a heavy sigh, trying to clear his head. “That's messed up.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, lips twisting into a grim smile as he pushes to his feet and starts down the stairs. “We should maybe get out of the creepy tunnel of pain before Willy Wonka pops out and starts monologuing.”

Scott laughs weakly, both because he actually gets that reference, and because he still has to tell Stiles the worst possible news ever, and _still_ doesn't know how to say it.

“Dude, just spit it out,” Stiles says before dropping onto the arm of the couch and perching there, folding his arms as he stares up at Scott. “Look at everything I've gone through lately; could one more shitty thing possibly be _the_ shitty thing that sends me jumping off a cliff?”

“Don't say that,” Scott winces.

“You know what I mean,” Stiles mutters.

Scott just nods before reaching out to shove Stiles down onto the couch properly, ignoring the flailing limbs of his friend as he steps around Stiles and sits down next to him. Stiles grunts and rolls his eyes and huffs; all the annoyed sounds he can muster as he rights himself back up to something respectable just in time for Scott to say the words that make his blood go cold.

“You have to kill him with your bare hands.”

All Stiles wants to do is make the werebear joke that slides onto the tip of his tongue (“ _bear_ hands, get it?”); to lighten this moment with his usual brand of sarcastic levity, but he can't. He can't because he's crying again.

But he's not crying for Stuart, and he's not crying for his dad. He's crying because he can't stop staring at the photograph on the entertainment center, right next to the TV. The picture of himself and Stuart both piled onto their mom's hospital bed, one on either side of her, and of the Sheriff crouched in behind them with an arm thrown around all three. His mom is sick, and she _looks_ sick; pale and drawn with a tube in her throat and I.V.s in her arms. But she's smiling, and Stiles can see in her eyes how happy she is to have her family with her.

One of the nurses had taken that picture two days before his mom had died, and Stiles is crying because once again he remembers what it feels like to have to shoulder all of his grief alone.

 

Two irresponsible shots of Jack Daniels later and Stiles is on his feet, his eyes red-rimmed, but hard and determined.

“I don't know what happened to Derek,” he says as he walks back downstairs, having changed into a pair of khakis and a fitted blue thermal, because he couldn't stand the thought of killing his brother in any of the clothes he actually _really_ likes. “But we can't wait. Deaton should be contacting Stuart any minute, so we have to go.”

“Yeah,” Scott says through a breath, and holds out his hands for Stiles' keys, because the worst possible thing that could happen right now would be for the alcohol to go straight to Stiles' head and for everything to go to shit because he crashes the Jeep on their way to the animal clinic. Stiles gives them up with a minimal fuss.

“Can you take care of things without Derek?” Stiles asks, pausing in the living room to give his best friend a serious look, and Scott just nods.

“I can do it,” he says, determined. He won't let Stiles down.

“Okay, then let's go–” Stiles begins, but cuts himself off as his gaze darts from Scott to behind Scott, eyes widening a bit as his lips part in a worried exhalation. At the leap of Stiles heart, Scott quickly turns and sees what Stiles' sees.

The gun safe. It's open just a bit.

“Shit,” Stiles hisses, before practically launching himself over the couch and skidding to his knees in front of the large, metal safe. He pushes the door open and immediately begins touching the weapons inside, quietly counting and cataloging to himself as Scott walks up behind him.

“Both of the .357s are here, the Smith and Wesson .38, the .44 Magnum,” Stiles counts off as if naming the firearms out loud is something rehearsed, and Scott's face contorts into an almost insulted expression.

“ _Dude_ ,” he says, before crouching down next to Stiles. “You never told me you knew guns.”

“I didn't want you perving over me like you do over Allison,” Stiles jokes, deadpan, but keeps taking tally. “The shotgun is gone because dad keeps it at work, but both the 30-30 Winchester and the .450 Marlin are here, thank god.” He exhales heavily and scans the contents of the safe once more before tensing and leaning in, fingers brushing over a blank spot at the very edge of the safe. “Oh, shit, he took the Glock.”

“Are we sure it was Stu?” Scott asks. “You sure your dad didn't take it?”

“No way,” Stiles says as he pushes back up to his feet and walks over to one of the bookshelves on the other side of the room and grabs out one of the innocuous boxes on the bottom shelves. There were a few down there, and Scott had never really paid them much mind over the years, thinking they just had documents or random things in them. Nothing interesting.

But when Stiles opens up one of the fireproof boxes, Scott's eyes widen at all of the ammunition inside.

“Look,” Stiles points, his lips in a grim line. “One of the boxes of .40 caliber rounds is missing. My dad would _never_ use that firearm or this ammunition for work. He has a 22 issued to him by the department. The one he has here is his _own_ gun.”

“Which Stuart would know...” Scott trails off, his eyes widening a bit.

Stiles swallows thickly. “I don't remember if me and Stu have the same fingerprints,” he says weakly. “I know that _real_ identical twins don't, but he's not my twin, he's–”

“He's _you_.”

Both boys can't do anything but stand and stare at each other for a few moments as every conceivable bad outcome possible flies through their heads at rapid speed, and it's not until Stiles grabs one of the magazines of ammo and jumps to his feet that Scott's head is back in the game.

“He wouldn't do that,” Stiles says as he walks back over to the gun safe. “He wouldn't kill Deaton to frame me. That would be monumentally stupid of him, especially if he's planning on killing me and taking my life,” he scoffs a bitter laugh.

“Maybe he's just not thinking at all,” Scott says as he watches Stiles' hand hover over both of the rifles before grabbing the one he'd called the .450 Marlin. “Maybe he knows what we're planning.”

“Probably,” Stiles says as he fingers the release mechanism and opens the shield so he can load the new cartridge in.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Scott asks, his expression straining at the thought of Stiles carrying around a gun. It's just like this invisible, unspoken line he'd really hoped none of them would ever have to cross. It was like some kick in the ass into the shit, and once you were in it, there was no climbing out again.

Scott's always carried this secret little hope that Stiles might get out of here after high school, that he might be the one who could get away. But he knows that won't happen, not as long as the rest of them stay. Stiles is pack, and he'll be there with all of them for as long as it takes.

“As the resident un-clawed, un-fanged, and very much lacking-in-super-werewolf-healing human,” Stiles says as he stands up and cocks the rifle, smiling at the very satisfying and very dangerous action movie hero sound it makes as he loads a live round into the chamber. “I'm not walking into a possible gun fight unarmed.”

“Stiles–”

“Hey, uh...” Stiles says as he's strapping the rifle into a case. “Look, if anything happens to me...”

“Dude, come on.”

“No, listen,” Stiles says as he looks up at Scott, his face completely serious. “If anything happens to me and you think I might not make it, then I give you permission, okay?”

 _I give you permission to turn me_.

Scott's silence is almost palpable, but as soon as Stiles is finished securing the rifle and clothing the case, Scott tugs him to his feet and pulls him into a firm embrace. “I love you, man,” he whispers. “We'll make it through this.”

Stiles just nods and fists his hands into the back of Scott's shirt, before pulling back and grabbing him by the shoulders. “I need you to know that, despite whatever crap gets left behind by this thing after it...” he licks his lips and draws in a shaky breath. “ _You're_ the only brother I've ever really wanted, okay? You're the only one I need.”

Scott's smile is soft but genuine as he reaches down to grab the rifle case, before pulling Stiles' keys out of his pocket. He nods, then, before they make their way toward the door.

 

It wasn't _really_ a trap.

It's not like Derek had walked in blind. He knew exactly what was going on here, and he knew that Stuart knew that he knew. So less of a trap and more like blackmail, or maybe even a threat. Definitely a hostaging. But regardless, Stuart had preyed on Derek's perpetually guilty conscience and lured the werewolf to the animal clinic ahead of schedule.

All it took was a photograph of an unconscious, bloodied Deaton tied-up and laying on the floor, accompanied by a text that read simply _‹J_ _ust remember that I know everything he knows, baby._ _›_ Derek couldn't risk it; he had to let himself be baited.

Derek wasn't exactly sure which 'he' Stuart was referring to, but he was assuming Stiles, and if that was the case then they were all potentially screwed. If Stuart really does know everything Stiles knows; if he really does think exactly like Stiles, just from the other way, then Stuart will be able to predict practically every move his brother makes.

Derek silently hopes that Stiles and Scott can figure out a way to outsmart an evil, much more conniving version of Stiles.

“Hi, Derek,” Stuart says the moment the werewolf steps in through the front door. He's sitting on the reception desk just as casually as anything; just like Deaton _isn't_ tied up and gagged and laying on his side on the floor, half-hidden under the desk Stuart is sitting on. He's still very much alive; Derek can tell. He's a little curious as to why, though.

“Why haven't you just killed him?” he asks Stuart, keeping his features carefully neutral, and his voice just as well.

“It's easier if Nim concedes to me willingly,” Stuart says with a little shrug. “I don't _want_ to hurt either of them, and if I can hostage Deaton to get what I need, then it seems like a better trade.” He narrows his eyes slightly, giving Derek a thoughtful look. “I know you think I'm a monster, but I think you're wrong. He is me and I am him, and the thought of killing him freaks me out just as much as the thought of killing myself. But I can't exist this way... it's not natural for me.”

“You're not supposed to exist as an autonomous construct for this long,” Derek says, as if finally getting it.

Stuart smiles and just taps the side of his nose with the finger of his free hand before pointing at Derek, as if implying that he's now in on the joke. “I'll eventually kill him whether I want to or not. I'd sap his will, his energy... It was the sex that really set the ball rolling."

Stuart pauses for just a moment, tilting his head innocuously as he watches Derek's jaw set tightly. He smiles, like he enjoys the reaction he just got from the wolf. 

"I've already started taking over his life," Stuart continues. "Integrating myself with the people and things he loves the most. You were the last one I had to get to, and _man_ you were really gonna love what I did to you." He grins a lazy grin, and the way his eyes flash suggest exactly what Derek assumes he meant. "But you went and fooled us all, didn't you?”

Derek smirks, feeling a sharp spike of pride in the adrenaline that's coursing under his skin.

“You really are distractingly hot when you smile,” Stuart grins. “But you know that, don't you? You're not nearly as clueless as you let everyone believe.”

“We all have to have our secrets,” Derek confirms.

“Sure,” Stuart says as he turns and swings his legs over the wooden half-wall made of mountain ash and checking to make sure the little door is securely shut. “I get it. Stiles keeps a ton of secrets from all of you. More than a few are about _you_ ,” he smiles innocently up at Derek, before dropping to check Deaton's vitals. “Do you want to hear about the jerk-off fantasies he used to have about Scott after Scott got turned?”

Derek frowns and gives Stuart an incredulous look, and though he mentally berates and chastises himself for falling victim to Stuart’s obvious goading, he can't help his intense curiosity.

“No,” Derek says through his teeth, watching as the doppelganger straightens back up and walks up to stand just barely beyond the barrier of mountain ash.

“He still has them sometimes,” Stuart says with a pleasant smile. “Probably because Scott's the alpha now and you're, well...”

“What's this going to accomplish?” Derek growls.

Stuart lifts his eyebrows, a little surprised as how quickly Derek's hackles raise. “Nothing... I'm just being mean because you all want to kill me, so I figure why not, right? Can I convince you that Deaton isn't nearly as helpful as you guys think he is, and that maybe he'd be better off dead?”

“No.”

“And I probably wouldn't be able to convince you to join me and Nim in the sack the same way I convinced Lydia, would I?” Stuart asks, unable to wipe the smug smile off of his face despite being face to face with a particularly angry and revengeful werewolf.

“Nope,” Derek retorts.

“Concise and to the point,” Stuart drawls. “That's our Derek; never giving more than he can hold in his hands and crush if he needs to. To dangle and jerk back, because you only get to see what he wants you to see, _when_ he wants you to see it.”

Derek stiffens and tips his head back a bit, peering at Stuart through narrowed eyes, and Stuart rejoices internally as he scratches emblematic fingernails over one of Derek's metaphorical scabs.

“Can I convince you to do anything other than stick to your original game plan?” Stuart murmurs, his brown eyes so painfully Stiles that Derek almost has to look away.

“No,” Derek sighs.

“Huh, you must really like Stiles,” Stuart says with a bit of a resigned look on his face before reaching back to fumble for something in the back of his jeans, under his shirt. "Which I guess is a good thing, because he's had the hots for you for, like,  _ever_."

“I do like him,” Derek ignores the baited comment, narrowing his eyes as he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end The sharp scent of adrenaline fills the air as Stuart's blood gets up, his pulse lurching, because he's about to _do_ something. Derek flexes his fingers as claws push out, and he can feel his eyes burning a cold blue as his teeth start to sharpen, lengthen. “I actually hate _you_ more than I like him.”

“Wow, that's flattering,” Stuart says with a light laugh before pulling a Glock 23 out from behind him and aiming it point black at Derek's shoulder. He pulls the trigger without hesitation and sends a .40 caliber round straight through Derek's shoulder, blowing the ball-joint and tearing the rotator cuff.

Well, Derek certainly hadn't been prepared for that.

“I don't exactly have any neat powers or magic tricks or werewolf claws,” Stuart chides as Derek falls back against the wall with a hand on his momentarily useless arm, blood soaking his shirt and oozing out between his fingers. “But what I _do_ have is a dad who's the Sheriff.” Stuart re-cocks the pistol and keeps it trained on Derek; right at his face. “A lot of people don't know this, but when me and Nim were twelve, dad had his re-qualifications that year, so after school we'd go down to the station and do our homework at the shooting range while he was practicing. We pestered him until he taught us how to shoot.”

“That won't kill me,” Derek growls, his chest heaving as he forces himself to remain as still as possible, because for as much as he's _pretty_ damn certain, he can't be completely certain. Wolfsbane bullets or not, Derek doesn't know _anyone_ who's ever been shot full-on in the face.

“Mabe not, but it'll kill _him_.” Stuart smirks and lifts the pistol, aiming it at Deaton's head with perfect posture and an unwavering aim. “I'm actually a _really_ good shot,” he murmurs, but just as his finger begins to tighten on the trigger, a shot crashes through one of the animal clinic's windows, making an incredibly loud shattering sound that rings in both Stuart and Derek's ears as they collapse to the floor; Derek for cover and Stuart because there's a bleeding hole from a large caliber round right through the back of his head.

“I'm not too bad, myself,” comes Stiles voice, tight and resigned as he walks up to the shot-out window and peers in, watching as the wound on the back of his brother's head drains of blood, the shattered skull and gray matter bringing bile up in the back of Stiles' throat. They all know from Peter that the only way to kill Stuart is for Stiles to do it with his own hands, but getting shot in the head will at least put him down for long enough to restrain him.

“Nice fucking shot,” Derek mutters from where he's pushing up to stand a good ten feet away, drawing a pleased little smirk from Scott and a blush that creeps up from under Stiles' collar to the tips of his ears. He thumbs the rifle's safety back on before sticking it back into the case Scott's carrying and snapping it shut.

“We need to hurry,” Stiles says as Scott jogs in behind him, both of the werewolves moving in behind him as Stiles drops to check on Deaton. “This isn't a very big town and there's not much for the guys on patrol to do, so response time for shots fired is usually less than three minutes.”

Scott grabs Stuart, whose head is looking less and less crime scene by the second, and carries him back out to the Toyota, which gives Derek's shoulder time to heal enough for him to be able to drive. Derek, who had grabbed the Glock, tosses it to Scott who hops in the back with Stuart to keep things 'civil' when he eventually wakes back up, and the three of them peel out of the parking lot, tires screeching. Stiles will meet with them later after getting rid of the blood and talking to the cops. He just hopes Deaton didn't get knocked _too_ hard on the head; this will only work if he remembers his script.

Stiles nearly face-plants in his haste to run into the back, shaking hands searching through all of the locked cupboards – which Deaton gave him a key to earlier – and finally finds what he's looking for. He doesn't know what it is, because Deaton didn't tell him, but when he unscrews the jar and sprinkles the fine dark powder onto the puddle of Stuart's blood, it immediately sucks all of the liquid up like a sponge before hardening into tiny little pebbles which then crumble to ash.

“Damn,” Stiles whispers, eyes wide in awe. “Magic is _awesome_.”

Deaton stirs finally, and with a hasty stomping and erratic kicking, Stiles disperses the ash onto the floor; ash which Deaton had assured him earlier would be untraceable.

“Did it work?” the vet asks through a strained cough as Stiles quickly unties him, his ears perking a bit as he hears sirens in the distance.

“Yeah,” Stiles assures him as he helps Deaton to sit up against the wall, leaving him on the floor because he has a head wound from where Stuart bashed him with _something_ , and Stiles doesn't want to run the risk of him passing out.

“How did you trick him?” Deaton asks, giving Stiles a soft, almost proud smile.

“Uh... the guns, actually,” Stiles says with a bit of an awkward frown. “He took one of my dad's pistols, figuring I'd try something different, something more predictable, because I hate guns,” he chuckles slightly. “He probably assumed I'd cave before picking one up, which is exactly _why_ I picked one up.”

“Well, don't worry about the window,” Deaton says as three cruisers scream into the parking lot, voices already blaring on the speakers. “I have insurance.”

“Yeah,” Stiles smiles weakly. “Okay, I'm going to go let them know what happened. You remember what we talked about, yeah? I was coming by to see if Scott was here, and I found everything just like this. You already take the money and Ketamine out of the back room and stash it?”

“It's all taken care of,” Deaton nods as he rubs his wrists, bruised and sore from the rope. “A standard robbery by irresponsible teenagers just driving through town. I didn't see faces because they were wearing bandanas, but there were three of them. They hit me with a small statue of a dog my old receptionist gave me, and that's all I can clearly remember.”

“Right,” Stiles pauses, giving him a squeeze on the shoulder before standing. “Right... thanks, doc.”

"Good luck, Stiles."

 

The county may have taken over the old Hale property, but that didn't mean they were doing anything with it.

The burnt-out shell of a house stands just as old, proud, and derelict as it ever had when Stiles pulls up over an hour later, and it's quite obvious that nothing out here has been touched since Derek moved downtown months ago. No service vehicle tracks, no pruning of trees or landscaping, and definitely no removal of burnt and broken wood.

Stiles briefly thinks of Laura Hale and wonders if she's still buried in the front yard, and his eyes linger on the spot where he and Scott found her. Stiles also sometimes wonders about Erica and Boyd, and where Derek buried _them_. He's wanted to ask so many times, but it hurts too much to think about. Maybe later. Or maybe never.

Everything is silent and there's no one out here but birds, bugs, and them.

 _‹I'm here.›_ he texts to Scott, who returns fire in less than fifteen seconds.

_‹downstairs tunnels under house. hidden stairway in pantry in kitchen. don't trip and die.›_

_Thanks for the vote of confidence, Scotty_ , Stiles thinks as he walks into the house a part of him hoped he'd never have to walk into again, ever, in his entire life. This creepy house with its creepy underground tunnels. Though he can't help a bit of a smile as he descends the stairs, muttering about wolf dens out in the middle of the woods.

“I heard that,” Derek calls out dryly, which only makes Stiles snicker more, because the hysteria of what's about to happen is finally, really catching up to him, and he supposes it's either laugh, or break down into a sobbing, disgusting mess.

“So, how does this work?” Stiles asks, lingering near the bottom of the stairs before finally stepping in, his fingers drumming silently against his thighs because his nerves are wrecked. “You just gonna bury another body on the property?”

Inappropriate Humor: The Stiles Stilinski Story.

At Derek's withering look, Stiles clears his throat and mutters an apology.

“According to Peter, if the doppelganger is killed by the person whose life its trying to take over,” Derek says as he gestures toward Stiles. “It will fade away back into whatever mirror is closest to it, and that mirror needs to immediately be smashed. Then it's completely dead.”

“And there's a mirror in there?”

“Yeah,” Scott says. “I just took one of my mom's old makeup mirrors. She won't miss it. The light doesn't work anymore, so she never uses it...” he finishes lamely, because over-detailed sharing is just one of Scott's nervous tells.

“Thanks, man,” Stiles says, giving Scott a look like what he's done is the most important thing in the world. Truth is, Stiles is just so hyper-aware of everything right now, he's surprised he's not openly weeping and floating around the room all transcendent and shit.

“We'll be in there,” Scott says as both he and Derek move toward one of the smaller tunnels, which Stiles is assuming creeps and weaves through the much larger underground network like secret spy tunnels. Like Scott and Derek might slip out from behind a tapestry to murder Stuart with a candlestick, or something.

But this isn't Clue, or a medieval castle. This is reality, and Stiles knows he needs to get on with it.

“Hey, little bro,” he hears Stuart's voice before he even rounds the corner into the room he's being held in, and from what he vaguely remembers both Scott and Allison describing to him once upon a time, this is the same room that Kate tortured Derek in. Stiles doesn't know what sort of poetry there is in that, but he's almost certain it's there somewhere.

“Don't call me that,” Stiles responds as distantly as he can as his eyes finally land on Stuart, who's sitting on the floor against the carved-out stone wall. His arms are folded and his expression is cheerfully dismal, but his head wound seems to have healed up nicely. Stiles has no idea when Stuart lost his glasses, but of course he'd have to; because this has to be just as difficult as possible. Without his glasses, Stuart looks so much like Stiles that it makes his stomach flip.

“Why not?” Stuart asks, his tone flat and almost challenging as he climbs to his feet, and Stiles can see the dried blood that has soaked into the sleeve of his shirt and now cakes the side of his throat , matting one side of his hair flat. “I can say whatever the hell I want right now. What are you going to do, kill me?” he smirks.

Stiles feels himself bristle at the challenge; feels that same sense of competition he's always felt with his brother well up inside of him, which is the weirdest fucking sensation now that he knows exactly what he's looking at. Now that he knows that the _thing_ standing in front of him, wearing his face, is just another monster, but Stiles has cared about too many monsters to find so much blind fault in Stuart.

Stiles has to kill his brother for the oldest and simplest reason there is; survival of the fittest.

“So, what's the plan, Nim?” Stuart asks as he steps closer toward Stiles, and there's a bit of grim satisfaction in the fact that he's steps are almost cautious. “Do you even have one?”

“What, you don't know?” Stiles narrows his eyes and juts his chin defiantly. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

“I didn't see the _rifle_ coming,” Stuart laughs as a bit of modest indignity colors his face, but that doesn't stop him from stepping right up to Stiles and nudging the younger twin into a kiss. Long, hard fingers curl into the front of Stiles' shirt and grip it tightly as Stuart's tongue forces itself past Stiles' lips, the younger twin shrinking back just slightly as his world wavers and head spins at the touch, at the _taste_ of Stuart.

Addictions are addictions are addictions.

Stiles' hands come up and grab at Stuart's shoulders, and then one in his hair pulling at the dark locks, gripping them so tight that Stuart actually groans in pain and breaks the kiss with a hiss. And that's when Stiles punches him, a clumsy and only slightly trained fist straight to the side of the jaw.

“Ow!” they both hiss in tandem as they step away from each other, wincing so similarly it would be unsettling to anyone watching them. Stuart lifts a hand to his face, rubbing his jaw with annoyance as Stiles wrings his hand, glaring down at his fingers as if they were offending him by hurting.

“What the hell did you do that for?” they both complain at the other, before going wide-eyed and pointing at each other and shouting “Jinx, dick!”

Stuart has the audacity to smirk and Stiles just whirls around to glare at the wall, and thinks that if there was any furniture still in this room, he'd find a way to throw it at Stuart with the power of his mind. Like Magneto. They stand in silence for a few full, dragging minutes, and Stiles can feel Stuart's eyes on his back the entire time. It's uncomfortable as hell, the weight of his brother's gaze, especially knowing that Stuart isn't really his brother, but a life-stealing monster from some insane alternate mirror-dimension.

Stiles clamps down on a shiver and folds his arms in a huff.

“Hey, Nim,” Stuart calls out, his voice cheerfully poisonous. “Guess how long I've _actually_ been around.”

“No idea,” Stiles says as he turns around, his voice edgy and crawling toward mean as he intentionally lets himself get angrier, because it's so much easier to rage than to lament. “Let me see your phone. I'll check the calendar for the day marked 'completely destroy some dumbass teenager's life'.”

“Only three weeks the first time,” Stuart says with a chuckle as he holds up three fingers, ignoring Stiles' sarcasm in favor of his own gloating. Typical. “And this second time? It's only been two. That's _it_. Blows your mind, doesn't it? How I made five weeks feel like your _entire life_.”

Stiles draws in a shaky breath, and he can feel his chest rattling with the way grief collects tight in your throat and lungs first. He grits his teeth and looks down, nodding.

“And you can't help it, can you?” Stuart asks, his voice actually growing slightly more sympathetic with every word, with each step, until he's standing right in front of his twin. “You can't help that you still love me more than anyone else. That I'm still your fucking _world_. And you _hate_ it. You hate me so much,” he smiles with a weird, hollow amusement as his hands reach out to grab Stiles on other side of the face, forcing his brother to look him in the eye.

“I'm not stupid,” Stiles whispers as he reaches up to grab Stuart's wrists, cutting him off just as he was about to continue. “I know what you're trying to do.”

“Just trying to inject a little reality check into your life, baby bro,” Stuart murmurs as he draws one of his fingernails slowly along Stiles' jawline. “Just a little reminder that you still have a choice–”

“You know what? You're right,” Stiles says, his voice catching in his throat as he throws Stuart's hands off of him and steps back a few steps with a heavy exhale of breath. “I do hate you. I hate that you made me realize what I thought I didn't have, and I hate that you made me think I needed _you_ to have it.”

Stuart frowns and tilts his head back a bit, eyes narrowing at Stiles as the younger twin continues to speak.

“I hate that you made me so happy that I forgot about everyone and everything else that mattered,” Stiles goes on, his expression shifting subtly from open and wounded to staunch and determined. “But most of all, I hate that it's killing me to choose _them_ , and I hate that I need their help with something like this. Because they shouldn't have to carry this... and neither should I.”

Without any warning, Scott rounds the corner into the room, peeling himself out of one of the shadowy corners with a tire iron gripped in one hand, hanging down heavy next to his leg.

“But that's, you know... what love really is,” Stiles sighs and folds his arms over his chest like he's a little cold, just as Derek steps out of one of the other murky corners right behind Stiles, carrying a piece of metal pipe. “Love is as much about sacrifice as it is about joy, and while I think I always sort of knew that, I never really _got_ it until now.”

Stuart, who by this point has practically flattened himself up against the dirty alley wall, is eyeing both Scott and Derek like a cornered coyote who only vaguely understands that the gun pointed at him makes a loud and scary sound, but not much else.

“They can't kill me, Nim,” Stuart says through his teeth, his entire body tense and stiff, and with good reason. Once a predator has you in his sight, any sudden movement could cause a swift and violent reaction.

Derek smirks meanly and Scott glances briefly at Stiles, who just drops his eyes and gives a stiff nod. The alpha's eyes briefly heat red as he steps in and swings the tire iron hard into one of Stuart's shins, shattering it. Derek's pipe connects with Stuart's other knee, and the doppelganger collapses to the ground, howling in pain as his two useless and broken legs splay out on the dirty ground before him.

The sound is muffled as Derek slaps a large hand over Stuart's mouth, feeling a primal thrill as the doppelganger lets out a choked whimper.

“I know they can't kill you,” Stiles says from where his feet are still planted on the other side of the alley, his head still turned; he hasn't looked yet. “They're here to make sure you don't go anywhere while... while _I_ kill you.”

“You won't,” Stuart gasps as he jerks his head away from Derek's hand, his eyes bloodshot and pupils blown from the shock and pain his body had just been forced to endure. “You _can't_.”

“I _have_ to!” Stiles yells as he finally turns to face Stuart, and in even the dim light of the tunnel it's obvious that his eyes are red-rimmed. “You didn't give me a choice, Tau; you were gonna kill _me_. You're the one that went full damn throttle. You could have–” he cuts himself off with a shaky inhale and then a hard exhalation; grounding himself. “You could have just been my _brother_. You could have...”

“No he couldn't,” Derek says tightly, his hand gripping white-knuckled around the pipe, and the simmer of blue in his eyes suggests he's restraining himself from doing very bad things to Stuart, a realization which sparks an odd sort of response in Stiles. “He's a monster; he doesn't have a soul. He's a mimic. Every single detail about him is just you, reversed. It would always come back to this; either he kills you, or you kill him.”

“Takes a monster to know a monster,” Stuart sneers up at Derek, as if almost daring the wolf to do something, and Derek certainly isn't above rising to the occasion. With a growl he pins one of Stuart's shoulders _hard_ against the wall with the metal pipe and quite possibly cracking one of Stuart's collarbones. A pained grunt pulls out of the doppelganger, momentarily distracting him long enough for Scott to speak.

“Stiles, the longer you wait...” he trails off, his face a mask of conflict, and Stiles feels a flash of guilt in his stomach because he knows this entire situation must be eating Scott up inside. “Just stop letting him talk. He's just trying to get into your head, you know that. To get you to let him go.”

Stiles sniffs hard and reaches up to swipe at his eyes with the arm of his shirt, feeling a swell of anger at the fact that he's _still_ so damn emotionally compromised by all of this. He's angry at _everything_ right now, and maybe that's good; maybe that's what he needs, because it's that sudden surge of heat in his core that moves his feet over to where Stuart is sprawled, back against the wall, being held in place by a very tense and stone-faced Derek.

It's not until that moment, until Stiles really looks at Stuart with all the blinders off, that he can see him for what he really is. Unfiltered and completely sober, Stuart is an affront to the natural order of things, and Stiles suddenly really gets that whole fight or fuck thing that people talk about with clones. The uncanny valley effect.

He feels and sees things very clearly, and with a welcome near-detachment he steps past Scott and walks right over to straddle Stuart's broken legs, crouching down right into his lap. Right into that spot he's so intimately familiar with. Stuart's eyes, dark with pain and fear and anger, slide up to peer at him as Stiles reaches out to shove Derek's pipe away, needing this to be just him and Stuart.

A spark passes between them, a sort of fire, and for the first time it's as if they both realize that only one of them will be walking away from this.

“You're not gonna do it, Nim,” Stuart hisses even as Stiles' hands slip up around his twin's throat. “You _can't_ do it. You don't have it in you. You're not a murderer.”

“You're not a _person_ ,” Stiles grits out between his teeth, and though he can nearly taste the resolve he needs in the back of his throat, his stomach lurches and he can't look at the doppelganger's face. “You're _not_.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” Stuart chokes, his hands reaching up to curl around Stiles' wrists, and Stiles can feel his brother's eyes burning on his face. Imploring. “Keep lying to yourself. I'm the one who's always been there for you. More than dad, more than Scott. It's _me_.”

“It's not _real_ ,” Stiles spits out, trying so hard to angry to cover up the desolation. “Once you're dead... I'll remember the truth.”

“But you'll never forget me!” Stuart growls, tensing and shaking his head hard as he yanks at Stiles' arms, trying to get them away. “You know you won't. Do you really want to live with that? You and dad, alone, remembering how you choked me to death? Your own brother? Dad'll never be able to look you in the eyes again.”

Stiles hesitates, and for half a second he feels Stuart's muscles bunch. He can read the air and knows he's about to be attacked, when out of the blue there's a large, strong hand on his shoulder, steadying him, while the other hand grabs one of Stuart's arms and pulls it away from Stiles.

Derek.

And then before him is Scott with one of his hands covering over Stuart's other hand, his face hard and eyes ringed with a brilliant red as he peels Stuart's fingers from around Stiles' wrist with a low, protective growl in his throat, before pinning the doppelganger back against the wall just like Derek did.

“Scott, I don't think I can–” Stiles can feel himself starting to shake, and as much as he tries he can't clamp down on it.

“You _can't_ ,” Stuart growls, and without warning Derek's hand slips off of Stiles' shoulder and balls into a fist, before connecting heavily against the side of the doppelganger's face. The hit sends Stuart's head bobbing back and forth like a bobble-head doll, eyes blinking and mouth hanging open like a dunk cartoon character who's seeing stars.

“Sorry,” Derek mutters as he crouches down next to Stiles, giving his shoulder another squeeze. “I've just been wanting to do that for awhile, now.”

“Stiles,” Scott begins, obviously trying to hide a weird sort of morbid amusement as his eyes flick from Derek and back to his best friend. “You have to do this. I know how hard this is, and I know how must feel, but you _know_ it's the right thing. It's the only option. It's the only way.”

“But what if I can't live with it?”

“You can,” Derek says quietly. “You find a way. This _thing's_ life isn't worth you sacrificing yours for. So you do what you have to do and you find a way to live with it.”

“We're here, okay?” Scott says softly before moving in to crouch on Stiles' other side. “You don't have to do this alone. You're not alone. I'll shoulder this with you. You can share this with me if you need to.”

Derek meets Scott's eyes behind Stiles' head, and with a little nod from the alpha, Derek nudges his shoulder against Stiles' before pressing his free hand against the trembling boy's back, urging him firmly forward.

“Now,” Derek says with an almost gentle sternness. “It needs to happen now.”

With a choked sound Stiles surges forward and tightens his hands tight around Stuart's throat. His eyes squeeze shut as the body beneath him starts to thrash and choke, and the slender, graceful fingers that had always brought him so much pleasure, comfort, and care, claw in vain at the hands that restrain him.

As the life ebbs from the doppelganger's body, Scott leans into Stiles and curls his free arm around his best friend's ribcage and presses his face to the back of Stiles' neck, whispering encouragement and apologies. Not a moment later Derek's hand is back on Stiles' shoulder, and his mouth against the crown of Stiles' head, the older man's breath warm and steady as the two wolves let themselves be Stiles' rock as he chokes the life out of his twin brother.

They all three share in this death together, because this isn't something Stiles should have to carry alone.

No one walks alone. That's just how pack works.

 

The sun is shining as the three of them walk out of the animal clinic and into the parking lot, and it seems almost disrespectful that the day is so nice. Scott and Stiles walk like a matched pair, like Siamese twins attached at the ribcage, with their arms wound around each others' shoulders. Derek keeps in step a bit behind and to the left, his arms hanging heavy at his sides as his eyes linger with concern on the backs of both of the boy's heads.

There was no body to dispose of, no pieces of broken mirror. It all just crumbled away to the dust it was before. Because that's all magic really is; taking what's around you and bending it into something you want the world to see. It's for the best that there be no evidence left behind.

Scott and Stiles don't say anything as Derek breaks off toward his own car, but both boys watch him as he walks. Scott looks resolute and sad, but also proud; like any good alpha would. Stiles looks like he's trying desperately not to be miserable and break down, and for a moment Derek thinks he sees something in Stiles' eyes to suggest that he might be less miserable if Derek didn't leave, but this was the wrong time for all of that.

He gives them both a nod and a lingering look before getting into the Toyota and driving off without a word, because men must be men, even if they're all still just boys.

 

The moment Stiles gets home he runs upstairs and takes one of his anti-psychotics. He really has no idea if it'll work in this situation, but even the idea of a placebo makes him feel better.

The second thing he does is shatter the mirror that's still hanging heavy and ominous on the back of his closet door. He breaks it with a stupid spelling bee trophy he won in the eighth grade, he breaks it with the unlaced lacrosse stick in his closet, he breaks it with his foot and his fists, and ignores his bloody knuckles because the pain and the release feel _good_. He kicks it until the door comes off the track and cracks in the middle and he feels vindicated. The guilt will simmer for a while, but it _will_ leave him eventually.

When the Sheriff runs in, Stiles sits heavy on the edge of his bed and explains everything,  _everything_  to his dad. He's grateful that he can stare at the mess he's made instead of having to watch the loss and guilt and unreadable disappointment in his father's eyes. But the moment Stiles' feels familiar arms squeezing around his shoulders, he knows that his dad isn't angry at him, and that the disappointment he saw in the Sheriff's eyes wasn't for  _him._

“I'm supposed to protect you, kid,” the Sheriff whispers into his son's hair, his arm heavy and tight around Stiles' shoulders. “If I'd been doing that, this never–”

“Dad, shut up,” Stiles laughs in a soft, humorless sound, his head resting on his dad's shoulder as they both stare at the mess of broken mirror and splinters of wood that used to be Stiles' closet door. “You _do_ protect me. You protect me from everything that's not inside me, because all of this?” he gestures at himself; points to his own head. “That's _my_ responsibility. And trust me, I'm gonna be working on making myself tougher.”

“Good, because I love you, and I want you around for a long, long time,” the Sheriff says with the sort of hoarse catch to his voice that only older men get when they're trying to not cry. “Okay, well come on downstairs.” He gives Stiles' shoulder a squeeze before standing. “I'll let you choose what we have for dinner, but only _after_ both the Glock and the Marlin are back in the gun safe.”

Stiles stands and opens his mouth to speak, but the Sheriff just holds up a hand and shakes his head, giving his son a weirdly resigned smile.

“I don't want to know,” he sighs, lingering by the door. “Not yet. I will let you know when you can tell me. I won't make you hold onto it by yourself for too long, I promise... but I need some time, okay?”

Stiles smiles softly and nods, rubbing at the back of his neck. “So, pizza for dinner?” he asks, purely out of instinct, but at that they both freeze and exchange an uncomfortable glance before shaking their heads and muttering “Chinese” at the exact same time.


	3. Epilogue; The summer after junior year.

It's been five months, and the only ones who remember Stuart are Stiles, the Sheriff, Derek, and Scott. One night when Peter wasn't around, Derek and Stiles had skimmed through his books to see if they could find out why. Why hadn't they forgotten like they had last time? Why hadn't Stuart's death erased him from their minds?

_Any interaction with a shadowman after the veil magic is broken will result in an impression of corporeal reality that will linger just like a real memory. Recommended methods of coping include seeking psychiatric help, chemical medication, a potent forgetting spell, or hypnosis. See Chapter Seven: The Mind Can Be a Powerful Ally and a Powerful Enemy for more information on these, and other, options._

So they just deal with it. They don't avoid the subject of him if it comes up, but they also don't dwell if they can help it. The entire ordeal brought all four of them closer together than Stiles ever thought they'd be, because no one else could ever possibly understand. Now it's not at all unusual for Stiles to find Scott and Derek hanging out together without him, or for Derek to drop by his house for dinner from time to time, just because the Sheriff thought to invite him.

It was a little weird at first, but when something good can be born of something so awful, then the awful thing doesn't seem quite so bad in retrospect. Even the most beautiful flowers get their start in shit.

Take tonight, for example; monthly pack movie night at the loft. An idea Stiles and Scott came up with to make everyone feel more included in each other's lives. There was no reason for Scott and Isaac to be on one side while Derek and Peter stood on the other. And there was certainly no reason for Stiles, Allison, and Lydia to feel like they had no place with either pack. They were all allies now, and they'd all chosen their places individually; to protect Beacon Hills and each other. So why not do it together?

Stiles is the first to arrive at the loft, and it only takes three minutes of arguing over what movie they're all going to watch before Derek finally slips up.

“Stiles, don't make me kiss you,” Derek says with an eyeroll, though quickly freezes because in his head he'd said 'hit'. _Hit_. He was sure he'd said 'hit'.

Shit.

One glance at Stiles tells Derek that not only did he actually say 'kiss' out loud, but that Stiles had most definitely heard it, and judging from his exuberant reaction there would be no getting rid of him now. He's suddenly a mess of an awkward grin and bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, and his hands keep doing that nervous thing they do where he doesn't seem to know where to put them. Whenever he does that Derek always just wants to grab his hands and shove them into Stiles' pockets. Or kiss them, which is embarrassing to admit even to himself.

“Stop doing that,” Derek chastises with a sigh before reaching up to rub at one of his eyes with a sigh, groaning like he'd just accidentally Wiki-leaked and the government was about to swoop in and gun him down. "Stop looking so damn excited."

“Dude, why didn't you ever say anything?” Stiles demands in a low tone, though there's no way in hell Peter hadn't heard all of this from where he was upstairs.

“Why do you think?” Derek asks, like it's obvious.

“You tell me,” Stiles demands.

“You were emotionally compromised at the time,” Derek grits through his teeth, trying to defend his decisions even though the look Stiles is giving him just makes him want to throw the kid out a window.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles snarks lightly. “If anything, I could have used you even more _then_.”

Derek huffs and pulls out the most trite excuse of them all. “You're only seventeen.”

“ _So_?” Stiles yells, because he's not having it.

“So, your dad is still the Sheriff,” Derek sighs and throws his hands up. “And while he probably isn't looking for _any_ excuse to have me arrested anymore, he probably _would_ throw me in jail if I started hooking up with his underage son.”

Stiles narrows his eyes and shoves his hands onto his hips, arms akimbo. “Well, what he doesn't know won't hurt him.”

“Jennifer,” Derek lifts a hand and starts ticking off his fingers. “Jackson, Matt, Stu–”

“ _Okay_ ,” Stiles grumbles. “Smartass.”

Derek glares and grabs the movie _he_ wanted to watch. “Can we just forget I said anything?” he asks, knowing it's futile as he walks over to the DVD player.

“Uh, no,” Stiles says, and is suddenly right next to him, arms folded and eyes shining, and Derek can _feel_ Stiles' want to touch him practically emanating off of him in waves. It's not the first time he's felt it; it's not the first time he's _wanted_ it, but it's the first time he doesn't know exactly how to respond to it.

“This is a bad idea and you know it,” Derek mutters after feeding the DVD into the player and taking a step away, giving the teen an imploring look. “It's just going to end badly, so–”

“So what's the point?” Stiles deadpans, quite astutely finishing Derek's question for him and leaving the werewolf looking slightly exhasperated as Stiles continues. “Why even bother? I'm Derek and I'm just going to brood alone forever in the dark, in my concrete, jail cell, this-is-Sparta loft with no rugs or pillows or comfort, and only the cold, dark reminders of death, which I deserve in my heart and soul?”

“Cute,” Derek says flatly with a roll of his eyes, but he doesn't get defensive or angry because Stiles is pretty spot-on, as always.

“I know I am, but what are you?” Stiles jibes with a sarcastic smile.

“Not dealing with this.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a stoic sigh. “Sort of your M.O., isn't it?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don't know... maybe that you only deal with things you can physically assault?” Stiles gives an exaggerated shrug and steps away from Derek, his hackles rising a bit as he lets himself get angry. No, not angry; passionate. “Whenever it requires more than two brain cells dedicated to anything emotional, you shut down like a Blockbuster Video.”

“What–?”

“... _Nothing_. God, no one gets my brilliant metaphors,” Stiles complains. “Just... what are you so afraid of?” he continues, moving to put the couch between them. “It's _me_. I'm not going to use you. I'm not going to screw you over or hurt you if I can help it. I think you're... I don't know,” he sighs. “I'd like to get to know you better.”

“Why?”

“Because...” Stiles begins, unguarded. “Because you're one of my heroes. You've saved my life a bunch of times and you've never had a reason to. You're so weirdly unselfish in every way except _this_ one.” He lifts a hand and jabs it at Derek through the space between them, and Derek is about _this_ close to picking up his sofa and throwing it across the loft because he suddenly hates that it's between them.

“You're so selfish with yourself,” Stiles continues, his hands moving all over as he talks, which was such an annoying habit that Derek loves about him. “And I'm a picker by nature. I pick at things! I _want_ to get inside your head,” he laughs weakly. “I just... want to get to know you better.”

Derek says nothing, but his face is open and he looks taken aback, maybe a little vulnerable.

“We're both just lonely, you know?” Stiles shrugs, and Derek looks away like he's been caught red-handed in a lie. Like Stiles just _knows_ things and it's making him a little uncomfortable. “I don't know, just– maybe we don't have to be alone for a little awhile.”

Derek blinks, and his lips part like he's going to say something, but all he can do is turn halfway and look down, before clearing his throat. He's obviously a little overwhelmed, which only makes Stiles smile; makes him feel a little steadier, like he's gained a bit of ground.

Like he's _right_.

“So, you know how I feel,” Stiles says, feeling an almost heady rush to his head. This must be what real power feels like, he thinks with an inward laugh. “Ball's in your court, I guess. I'm gonna go pick up Scott, because walking out on this awkward moment is probably a good idea right now.”

Stiles turns to do just that, his hands shaking slightly as he shoves them into the pockets of his jeans as he moves quickly for the loft door, but he only makes it about halfway before Derek grabs him by the shoulder and tugs him back, pulling him nearly off his feet. He stumbles, but of course the older man catches him, steadies him, and then looks at him with the usual war on his face before leaning in and kissing him.

Derek kisses him with a weird sort of reverence; with a pliant firmness to his lips, like he doesn't know whether he wants to respect him, or to make him feel dirty and _like_ it. He kisses like he hasn't done it in years, but like he was born to do it. Like every moment is this measured thing; like every breath between them is strangely precious. Stiles, on the other hand, sinks into Derek's mouth like he's been starving for it, and gives Derek no respect for boundaries at all as he slings an arm around the broader man's shoulders as his other hand fists in the front of Derek's shirt.

They're all searching tongues and hungry sounds, and things are a little close to getting inappropriate when Derek stiffens suddenly.

“As loath as I am to interrupt this Nicholas Sparks-worthy moment,” comes Peter's voice as he descends the spiral staircase. “We're about to have company.”

With a knowing smile and a shake of his head, Peter strolls toward the door as Derek and Stiles spring apart, each one pushing at the other as an excuse to keep touching, but they put a bit of distance between them as voices reach their ears, and Stiles can tell that Derek's annoyed at himself for having been so distracted that he didn't hear them coming.

"I guess Scott got a ride," Stiles says lamely, turning away from the door so none one will see his flushed cheeks and swollen lips when they walk in.

Four hours later and the group has split, because Derek and Stiles quite generously volunteered to leave and get food. Everyone agreed on Mexican, and Scott's smile was pointed as he watched his friends walk out of the loft together.

“I've never done that before,” Derek admits as they walk back toward the car from the Mexican food restaurant, the warm and fragrant summer night air annoyingly pleasant in the wake of Peter's Nicholas Sparks jibe.

“What, picked up Mexican?” Stiles teases, and curls the fingers of his hand in against his palm, because he wants to reach over and touch Derek but maybe it's too soon. “Because I've seen you throw Scott–”

“No, idiot,” Derek says, and really it just sounds like a term of endearment, now. “Kissed a guy.”

Stiles lifts the side of his mouth in a lopsided smile and shrugs a bit. “They say a mouth's a mouth, right?” he jokes, because it's one of his favorite defense mechanisms, and the twist in his gut is telling him that he's scared; scared Derek's going to backpedal again.

“I've never actually been attracted to another man before in my life,” Derek admits with a slightly confused look as he unlocks the Toyota and sets the bag of food he'd been carrying in the backseat, before taking Stiles' from his and setting it in, as well.

“So you're saying it's just me,” Stiles says smugly.

“Looks like,” Derek admits with a short lift of his eyebrows, as if challenging the boy to keep making jokes.

Stiles gets the hint and steps in closer. “I can live with that,” he murmurs, tilting his head as he reaches out to press his knuckles against Derek's firm – _oh_ so nicely firm – abdomen in a faux punch, before flattening his hand in an affectionate touch.

Derek grunts approvingly and grabs Stiles by the back of the neck, pulling him in close. He noses into the younger man's hair and rubs his thumb along the nape of Stiles' neck, before turning him and gently pushing him into the passenger seat.

“So, who's gonna top?” Stiles asks casually as he buckles his seat-belt, and Derek just rolls his eyes as he slips into the driver's side.

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, I mean it,” Stiles shrugs, reaching out to adjust the volume of the radio now that they had something to talk about and weren't using loud music to cover up the awkwardness between them. “I think it should be me, since I'm taller.”

“You're not taller than me,” Derek says, shooting the younger man an incredulous look as he pulls out of the parking lot and out onto the road.

“I'm taller,” Stiles says with a shrug, like there's no argument; it's just fact.

“Not horizontally,” Derek smirks, his eyes lighting with amusement under the streetlights that flash by.

Stiles gapes, his eyes widening as he bodily turns in his seat to face Derek as much as he can. “...Oh my god, did you just make a dick joke?” he asks with as much obnoxious dramatics as he can muster. “Did Derek Hale just make a dick joke?”

“Maybe,” Derek says indifferently, which gets a good, healthy laugh out of Stiles. The sound makes the werewolf smile, because it's definitely nice to hear.

“Wow, I need to tell everyone I know,” Stiles says though a grin as he settles back into his seat once more.

And for once the idea of heading back to a loft-full of people doesn't seem so bad to Derek. In fact, it actually sounds pretty nice.

 

An hour and a half later and they're all into a second movie. Everyone has eaten, and Stiles is currently recovering from the charley horse he'd earned from Derek after one too many leading comments about Derek's mouth, dick, and probable sexual prowess. It's not that Derek is embarrassed by the thought of coming clean to everyone about him and Stiles, but he doesn't want to jinx anything. He needs to take this slow; it needs to be at his own pace.

This movie is cheesy horror, Stiles' pick, and none of them are completely committed to watching it. It's late and in their food comas, alliances have shifted and people have grouped up a bit. Lydia has claimed one side of the couch with Stiles next to her, and Derek on the other side of him, leaving Peter tucked against the other side with maybe just an inch or so of space between him and Derek.

There are pillows and cushions on the floor (that were brought over by various pack members, all with pointed looks at Derek and Peter as they dragged them in) that contain Allison, Scott, and Isaac, the trio leaning comfortably back against the legs of those who'd claimed the couch.

It's the third time in fifteen minutes that Isaac's checked his phone, and Scott glances over with an annoyed complaint on his lips because the glow from the screen is distracting, but Peter beats him to it, digging the toe of his boot into Isaac's side and earning a yelp from the tall, gangly beta.

“Isaac, I swear to all that is holy,” Peter growls softly. “If you flash that screen in my eyes one more time, not even the world's best surgeon will be able to extract that phone from where I will shove it.”

Isaac glances over his shoulder and up at Peter with narrowed eyes, and though the room can feel the tension between them at the threat, Isaac concedes with a reluctant, muttered apology. A finger moves toward the power button to shut off his phone, but before he can do it Scott reaches across Allison and snatches it right out of his hand.

“Hey–” Isaac protests, but Scott turns just enough for Stiles and Derek to see the screen, because the oddest thing draws their attention.

The camera app is open, but instead of showing the dark loft floor, Isaac has it on reverse. But the face its showing certainly isn't Scott's, nor is it Stiles' or Derek's. It's still Isaac's; Isaac's face smiling coldly up at the only three people in the room who have any chance at knowing what was going on.

Stiles' breath catches in his throat as the mirror man winks.

Without warning, Scott's claws push out and his eyes rim red, and the sound of protesting technology creaks and cracks louder than the canned screaming on the screen as Scott crushes Isaac's phone into a mangled mess of plastic, metal, and tiny little wires.

“So, who wants ice cream?” Scott asks the assembled, his voice a little tight with forced cheerfulness as he stands, smiling down at Peter, Allison, and Lydia's confusion, and Stiles and Derek's world-weary nods of approval. “Isaac and I will go get ice cream.”

“Scott, what the hell?” Isaac protests as he shoots up to his feet angrily, and while the look Scott gives him is contrite, it doesn't stop him from grabbing his friend and beta by the proverbial scruff and marching him toward the door.

“Dude, we need to _talk_.”

Stiles just groans softly and turns his head, burying his face into Derek's shoulder. The werewolf slips an arm around Stiles' shoulders and gives him a firm squeeze, and neither of them has an answer for Lydia when she plucks at one of Derek's fingers and asks what _this_ is all about; _this arm around the shoulders thing_.

Neither says a word, but Stiles throws his arm around _her_ shoulders and gives her a kiss on the cheek, because really, it's just about not being lonely anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](http://galaxied.tumblr.com/) . [twitter](https://twitter.com/galaxied) . [policy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/collie/profile)


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